


Smalltown Boys

by lil_bonsai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, friendship and family - Freeform, small town AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 49,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_bonsai/pseuds/lil_bonsai
Summary: In the midst of the aftermath of war, a young Alfred dreams of moving out of the war-ravaged village to study history at a university. He could of course have just asked his dad for financial support and he’d be at his dream destination long ago… So why doesn’t he ask for help?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	1. Small town boy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody!  
> Here's an AU I've been diligently working on, and it'll be my first longer work of fiction. Expect more or less 30 chapters yo!  
> I hope you guys will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it! I'll upload every Friday ^^
> 
> Let's roll!

Another day of work was finally done.

Alfred gathered the hundreds of tiny pencils lying around on the huge working bench, the ruler and the illustration sheets. He wouldn’t usually take time to diligently clean up the space he had worked on hadn’t it been for the fact that this wasn’t his own workspace. A screwdriver marked with a tiny “R” at the bottom of the handle, and another screwdriver marked with an “F”, had found their way underneath the bench and Alfred bent down to retrieve them, hanging them up on the wall by the other tools. Although neatly separated according to who owned them, the tools in their respective categories gave off the impression of having been organized by preschoolers.

“Are you done for the day?” came a chirpy voice from the staircase that separated the workshop from the owners’ living space. His name was Feliciano Vargas, only three years older than Alfred himself, and was one of the twins who owned the workshop and had ever so mercifully let him work there whenever it was necessary. Alfred turned around and tucked whatever of his shirt that wasn’t in his pants back in, saluting the humble Italian.

“Yessir, everything’s done and done!” he announced confidently, noticing a stray screw on the bench and tossed it back into its container.

Feliciano descended the stairs with his ever so hospitable smile, a slight skip in his step, and checked that Alfred had put things back where they were supposed to be. This was after all an airplane workshop and no matter how disorganized it may seem, there was a strict system that had to be followed. That was at least what Alfred had been _told_.

“ _Haha_ , you’re getting better at remembering where everything’s supposed to be!” Feliciano cheered upon seeing that nearly everything was how it was supposed to, and Alfred let out a sigh of relief. Usually it was Feliciano’s brother who took the check, and he tended to be much less forgiving.

Feliciano reached inside the chest pocket of his overalls and held out a few banknotes, which Alfred accepted and stuffed in the pocket of his pants. With an upbeat “ _grazie mille_!” he threw his coat on and exited the workshop, making himself at home in the company of a cold, late evening. Unlike that of the sun, the moon’s light was soft and sparse, as if afraid to scald the village’s inhabitants. All morning Alfred had done outside jobs, such as helping the elders with gardening and shopping, picking up trash from the streets, and planting lilies in the park a town over, only to find his arms ever so slightly burnt. Surely it would help to have a car to get places, especially when summer arrived, but until he had saved up enough money, his feet and the train would have to suffice.

Alfred lived along the so-called “main street”, the only street in the village that cars could pass through. Seeing as the village was so small, with around 30 registered inhabitants and less than twenty minutes of walking distance from one end to the other, its naming had been decided accordingly: Smalltown. Which wasn’t even its official name, but rather a placeholder name of sorts, and therefore the village had as many names as there were languages presented. Being of English-speaking origins, Alfred had grown to call the place Smalltown, but his nextdoor neighbor called the village “ _petite ville_ ”. He snorted. How funny that despite having existed for years now, nobody could decide what the town’s name should be.

In the chilly February air, Alfred passed through the alleys that seemed so very forlorn in the light of a moon that hadn’t fully risen. However, it wasn’t late enough for people to have gone to sleep yet, a fact manifested in the yellow lights he saw in the windows and the occasional shouting or laughing coming from them. Alfred pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself, and picked up the pace. Winter was a visually gorgeous time of the year, but _man_ , the hatred he held against everything else this season had to offer was unsurpassed.

After no more than six minutes of walking, Alfred saw the contours of his house and could already feel his soul ascend upon his future shower. Hurrying his frozen feet over, he saw something rectangular and white having been placed on the door handle, and his heart rate picked up. Could it be…? Alfred reached a hand out and grabbed the envelope stamped with a strikingly dignified: “Cambridge University”. He spent a few seconds staring at it before it felt like he snapped out of a dream, and he looked at it again with wide eyes. Had it already been a month since he sent the letter of application? Being a small town boy, important things such as university should never be forgotten, but in the midst of reading and working for months, the anticipation of getting a response for his application had ended up wandering to the back of his mind.

With fingers itching for the answer, Alfred didn’t even bother entering his house before he stuck his index underneath the top of the envelope flap, ripping it open. He grabbed the letter inside with cold and trembling fingers, and was about to pull it out when an impulse to halt overcame him.

What if it said that he wasn’t acce-

Alfred tossed the envelope to the ground as he opened the folded letter. His eyes were hesitant to land their gaze onto the letters and he had to force himself to do so a few times, and eventually he began reading the response he had so restlessly waited for. He had waited for the five-letter word that revealed the response’s intentions, the “happy” in “We are happy to inform you… ”.

There was no “happy”, however. There was another word with five letters instead that spelled “sorry”.

With a smile on his face, Alfred chuckled and loosely held the letter to his chest. He took a moment to sigh before picking up the envelope he had dropped on the ground. He put the letter back inside, folded it, and stuffed it into his pocket. Yet another letter to add to his little collection. Was he going to let himself be pushed over the edge of temptation and ask Dad for just the tiniest bit of support? Just a _tiny_ bit of allowance?

Of course not.

As Alfred faced the door he took a deep breath reaching into his abdomen, and as he twisted the door handle and pulled, the yellow light from inside poured over him in a comforting warmth.

“I’m home!” Alfred called, a little less energy in his voice than usual. He knew nobody would question him about it though, as the excuse about work being tiresome always served as a plausible explanation. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his suspenders and stepped into his woolen socks before finally ascending the stairs, and before he knew it, someone projected themselves like a missile onto him so he almost lost his footing.

“Al- Alfie,” Peter, Alfred’s younger brother, sniveled into the stomach of his shirt. Alfred pushed him away at once.

“Get your snot somewhere else, what happened?” he asked and crossed his arms. The young boy, a little taller than half his size, pointed to the door that led to the adjoined kitchen and living room.

“Dad s-spilled water onto m-m-my pl- plane-”

Peter needed not say anything more before Alfred gasped.

“Oh, he did _not_ do that to you,” he whispered, kneeling down and putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. All it took was for Peter to nod and sniff before Alfred rose to his steadfast feet again, and marched through the door frame.

“ _Mine father_ , why did you spill water onto Peter’s toy plane?” Alfred inquired in the grandest, most virtuous way possible and pointed an accusing finger toward his father standing in the kitchen, who did not even bother meeting his eyes.

“I did no such thing, he spilled the water himself and blamed ‘my wind’ when I walked by,” said his dad, Arthur, before turning around briefly with a deadpan face, “And drop that ridiculous act, will you.”

A blubbering Peter soon entered the living room with his crocodile tears streaming down his face. Despite the obvious act he was putting on, Alfred scooped him up in his arms and wiped them.

“If you have a problem with me siding with the children so be it, you _toy plane-destroyer_.”

Arthur chuckled from the kitchen and turned off the stove. As he carried the pot of dinner to the tiny kitchen table, he sent a knowing sneer toward the oldest of the boys, “Be careful not to become the trickster’s next victim now, he’ll do it when you least expect it.”

Alfred looked at Peter, who was not crying anymore but rather looking away innocently. Alfred pushed a finger into his little forehead. “You’re not going to betray me, are you?” he asked with cold and merciless eyes. The boys engaged in a little staring contest until Arthur called them to the table, and Peter jumped out of his arms. He turned around and gave Alfred a toothy grin, but Alfred wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to answer his question or if that was just one of the million playful expressions Peter did in a day. With a satisfied hum, Alfred was about to head over to the rest of his little family, when his eye caught sight of a headline in the newspaper that was lying on the couch. Not able to smoothen the marks of having been rolled up time and again, he quickly folded the paper out. Squinting, he read:

_New university in Newcastle starts its debut semester this September._

Slowly, Alfred rolled the newspaper together and excused himself that he’d be back in “two secs”. With the newspaper in hand, he hurried to his room and threw it onto his bed. When he came back to the staircase, ascending it step by step, hopefulness planted a seed in his heart. He was a diligent worker when it came to his dreams, and wanting to go to university to study was no exception. If he had to save up more thousands than he could count on his fingers and toes to get it, then in the name of all that was good and pure he would. If all the money he had saved up from six years of doing odd jobs in the village were to be spent on studying, he’d be more than eager to comply. Although - no, _because_ \- the country was struggling with the aftermath of war, there was no way he’d give up this golden opportunity to prove himself to the world.

  
If Alfred were the main character of a story, he wanted _this_ to be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Grazie mille!": Italian. "Thanks a lot!"  
> \- "Petite ville": French. "Small town"
> 
> Seeya next week!


	2. Small things in life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone!  
> Here comes chapter 2!  
> Now I’m not a big fan of original characters but know that these characters are nothing but NPCs, so to speak XD They’re just there to liven up town, and that’s all.  
> Also I’m using “Romano” and not “Lovino” because Lovino isn’t a real name.  
> Let's roll!

An alarm sounded through the house, waking its residents and the sun likewise. With a throaty groan, Alfred lifted his head which was hanging off the edge of his bed, rolled onto his stomach and looked at the clock by his bedside. He scrunched up his eyes as he tried to make out whether the short arm was pointing at seven or eight. Not that it was necessary for him to check since he always set his alarm to the onset of sunrise, but there had been unfortunate instances in the past in which he had let the opportunity to get cash slip away due to oversleeping. Deciding that the time was 7AM, Alfred got out of bed after having sat on the bedside for a minute and stared into the wall.

His routines were finished before Peter and Arthur had woken up yet, and the brisk pinkness of dawn welcomed him outside once again. Today’s work consisted of trimming branches in the garden of one of the elderly couples in the village. There were many of those. As in, villages. Having been established upon the concept of refuge from the horrors of warfare, many people had decided to move to these “refuge towns” around the country. Usually consisting of people from other countries and people unable to serve in the military, Alfred imagined there probably existed countless “Smalltowns” with tons of endonyms depending on the nationalities within. He himself had encountered at least two Smalltowns before he arrived here.

In the whirlpool of thoughts, his nose caught a pungent smell that sent him right back into the here and now. Now, a “pungent smell” would usually be something unpleasant, repelling even. However, there was no person in town who did not enjoy this particular pungency; Because near the train station and next-door-neighbor to the Italian airplane workshop was a bakery, and every morning the owner started his ovens and pans to secure freshly baked goods every day. And boy, did the noses of Smalltown know when it was time.

Trudging further down the main street, Alfred had counted to 500 when he reached the home of the elderly couple. Most probably they were awake given their age (even Dad who wasn’t even past 45 yet had reached the stage of waking up before eight just for the hell of it), but since they weren’t there to greet him and had laid out the necessary tools by their doorstep, Alfred assumed that they were out on a stroll. He took the gardening tools in his hands before rounding the corner, now standing before the garden. It was too frosty for flowers to grow, but from the enormous 10 x 4 square meters it encompassed, Alfred had seen all sorts of visual beauty grow there. Though, the bushes had indeed grown an ungodly size which reminded him of the hair on Dad’s head; Hadn’t seen the hairdresser in probably two years. His hair wasn’t long, it was just… Bristly. Alfred sucked in some air and let his inner child pretend he was a dragon spewing frozen breaths that turned everything it touched into ice, before trudging onto the grass to get the work done.

At some point Alfred cut a bunch of twigs, and a sword of sunlight pierced through the bushes, illuminating his blue eyes. For a moment he shielded them by looking away, and when he looked back, he realized that the sun was high and mighty in the sky. Almost halfway done with the work, he sighed contentedly before he met a pair of wide, golden eyes on the other side of the opening he had cut.

“ _Buongiorno_ , Alfred!” said Feliciano so jovially that he might as well be a chirping bird. Alfred immediately dropped the hedge trimmer and brought his index and middle finger to his temples in a beaming salute.

“Good morning!” he greeted back, having long given up in trying to get the same response from Feliciano’s brother, "Where ya headin'?”

Feliciano laughed and grabbed his brother, Romano, by the arm to drag him into the conversation. “It turned out we needed some extra parts for the floorboards, but we need to go all the way to York to get them, so we’re heading to the train station!” Feliciano explained and shot a smile at Romano, “Right, _fratello_?”

“That’s far away, huh,” Alfred remarked and dropped his salute, picking up the trimmer again.

“It’d be much easier if we had a car, but who has cars out here!” Feliciano laughed optimistically. Romano had already started walking again which forced Feliciano to conclude the conversation.

“Good luck with your work today, Alfred!” he beamed and was gone as fast as he had appeared.

Alfred had worked with the Vargases for roughly two months, which was when they decided to make a real airplane and not just the miniature toys they had originally been making (though it was through the social nature of everyday-life he became acquainted with them). It had stirred up quite the talk in town, “The Vargas Jet”, and Alfred felt a little proud knowing that he had helped them. Perhaps all he did was to help holding things in place or handing them tools when needed, doing the _minorest_ minor of engineering when they had overworked themselves, but it was still something he took pride in. Every little ounce of knowledge and penny of cash was a step to realize his dream after all. Even something as trivial as trimming the frozen and naked bushes in the garden of Mr. and Mrs. Moore was a new learning process that he would probably need in the most unexpected of times.

The sun proceeded its journey across the sky and when Alfred was about three quarters done, someone lightly touched his shoulder.

“I see you’re working as steadily as always, Kirkland!”

Alfred turned around and nodded as a gesture of acknowledgement toward the old man.

“ _Ahah_ , I sure hope this suffices, Mr. Moore! It’s been a while since I trimmed hedges!” the younger said smiled sheepishly before sending a toothy grin worthy of a handyman infomercial, “But one is never too young to re-learn stuff!”

The old man laughed like only an elderly man could do, giving Alfred a solid slap on the back.

“Did you and the missus go out for a walk today?” Alfred asked and proceeded with his work.

“Oh, we did, we did. By the lake,” said Mr. Moore, “‘s gettin’ filthier every year, gracious, just like our legs! Gotta appreciate the beauty while you can.”

The two shared a chuckle.

“There are tons of cool things in the world for people who have lost body parts, dontcha think?” Alfred leered and vaguely pointed at his own eyes, “My old man only has one eye, but he probably sees much more in the world than I do!”

Such was how the next thirty minutes passed by; Filled with small talk around topics that interested an old man, and Alfred doing his best to respond in a way that would please him. For the most part it was centered around existential and philosophical euphemisms for life, as well as banal things such as the weather, the lake, and how spring was coming soon. Mr. Moore trusted Alfred enough to give him the cash beforehand since he went back inside long before the work was finished, leaving Alfred to let his mind wander. Alfred admitted to himself that he loved doing jobs for old people as they sometimes, but only sometimes, had genuinely profound words of wisdom that he could understand. Too many people idealized the concept of speaking in metaphors, but as poetic they sounded Alfred had huge problems understanding them, and usually nodded and smiled. However, there were people like Mr. Moore who occasionally had a piece of advice that wasn’t clothed and draped in the fabric of symbolism. That, Alfred greatly appreciated in the old folks.

An hour and a lunch that the missus provided him later, Alfred finally placed the hedge trimmer on the couple’s doorstep. He walked around the house corner and ended up on the alley that slithered between the, for a lack of better description, _spartan_ and battered houses. He resisted the urge to take an ever so slight detour to the bakery and headed straight home, because this boy had plans and there was no time to lose.

Alfred threw the door of his house open, announcing that he was home to the people he thought were present. Despite the negative numbers the temperature scale had reached, trimming hedges proved to be a sweaty activity, so Alfred decided to get changed before anything else. He threw his sweaty shirt on the floor and replaced it with a beige woolen sweater. Maybe he was sweating now, but he knew that if he didn’t wear something warm these next hours, he’d be nothing but an ice cube.

All duties and musts aside, he headed over the window at the end of the hallway on the second floor, which faced the side of his neighbors’ house. Opening the window and letting a gush of icy air into the house Dad always tried to keep warm, Alfred formed a funnel with his hands from his mouth and projected his voice through his neighbor’s window.

“ _Matt_!”

There was nobody in the window yet, but soon a mop of smooth, dark blonde hair came into view accompanied by violet eyes. Mathieu, or rather referred to as just “Matt” by 99 percent of the village’s inhabitants, opened the window leading into his bedroom, visibly cringing from the winter that contrasted the heat inside.

“Hey, Matt! I’ll come over!”

“Oh- Well, okay-”

Alfred stepped onto the ledge, pushing the window closed with his butt. Upon seeing this, Matt immediately grabbed a hold of his own window handles.

“No- No, wait, just come in like a normal person and use the door!” he hesitated with that soft-spoken voice of his, seemingly threatening to close the window if Alfred didn’t obey. Alfred brushed it off with a snort.

“ _Ooo_ , you’re so scary, Matt!”

With no further ado, he leaped, laughing boisterously as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Buongiorno!": Italian. "Good day/morning!”
> 
> Seeya next week!


	3. Smart people and smart smart people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> Thing to keep in mind regarding the characters. I know we’re all used to them having accents from their countries, but let me just say it now since I’m starting to introduce secondary characters: Unless it is explicitly stated that someone comes/migrated from another country, they grew up in England. So they’ll have a British accent. I’m just saying that here before anyone comments otherwise non-British characters saying British slang hehe ^^
> 
> Anyhow, chapter 3, let’s roll!

Poor Matt had a frame significantly more fragile than Alfred, something Alfred knew but of course did not consider. With a brash thud, they fell to the floor, one of them groaning in dismay while the other laughed even merrier than just a few seconds ago.

“I keep telling you-”

“You can tell me as many times as you want, I’m not stoppin’,” Alfred grinned mischievously before Matt pushed him off, and Alfred rolled onto the floor. The boys took a few seconds to dust themselves off, close the window to keep the precious warmth inside, adjust whatever shirt was no longer tucked into pants, and finally Alfred looked at Matt and gestured toward the door that led into the hallway.

“Biblio,” he prompted, and the boys exited the bedroom.

Alfred had spent hours upon hours in this “bibliothèque”, or “library”, if one could call it as such. Rather, it was Matt’s father, Francis, who just happened to own a collection of books that no one could surpass and had made a special room dedicated to them. With all the shelves and aisles, it looked just like a library, but since Matt had been taught French all his life he called it accordingly, and that’s what Alfred had grown used to referring it to as well. The biblio was anything but a large and open space; The bookshelves were organized in an angular spiral starting with shelves aligning with the walls. The shelves slithered further into the room, a few gaps here and there so one wouldn’t need to walk all the way around all the time to get around.

Every time Alfred spent time in the biblio, he noticed books he had never noticed before. No matter if he was nine, eleven, thirteen, or in this case sixteen, years old, the biblio provided him with a treasure hunt for books that had lived longer than himself, and there was never a time he walked into that room without finding something new. With his fingertips gliding across the spines of the numerous books, he picked five about ancient civilization to study today.

Alfred and Matt sat down by the table in the middle of the labyrinth, both dropping their stacks of books onto the surface so it echoed throughout the walls.

“Haven’t you already read that one?” Matt asked and looked at one particular book about _The First Easterners_ in front of Alfred.

“I did!” Alfred said and held it up before hugging it to his chest, “But it’s _soooo_ good!”

Matt quietly snorted. He himself had just come back from school and found joy in being back in this small village with the few friends he had grown up with. His university had had an emergency due to some landmines that blew up nearby, and all students had been sent home to continue their studium there. So instead of a normal January-March semester, they had been urged to write an assignment that would be based off that term’s curriculum. Apparently, the professors had been slightly shameful about this solution given the immense prestige of the school, but situations like these had become normal for many schools in the country after the war. It was no longer a matter of where, but when. Having just started the subject of medical ethics and human biology, something Matt had greatly looked forward to, he felt an ever so slight demotivation wash over him as he opened the book about physiology. He was about to start reading when he noticed how quiet Alfred had been as he had dwelled into his thoughts.

“Al?”

Alfred snapped out of his daze without moving an inch. He kept his eyes on Matt before looking at his own books and opening the one about Mesopotamia.

“ _Qu'est-ce qu'il y a_?” Matt tried again. Al closed his book again but kept his hand in between the pages. He looked around for a few seconds before facing Matt on the other side of the table.

“ _J'ai eu une réponse de l'université_ ,” Alfred muttered before leaning back in his chair, quickly dragging a hand through his hair, “I was rejected again.” He could feel Matt’s eyes drilling through his glasses and trying to establish contact with his, but it was to no avail. Alfred made sure not to look him in the eyes yet.

“I didn’t feel good about that application when I sent it, so I’m not sure why I’m so disappointed. But I am. And apparently there’s a new university in Newcastle opening this autumn.” Alfred straightened his back and leaned forward, Matt mirroring his actions.

“Do ya think I could get into a less prestigious university, Matt? I mean- I mean, maybe trying to get into Oxford and Cambridge was setting the bar a bit high. I’m not saying I’m dumb, I’m just saying that I’m not smart enough to go to class with all those other smart kids, you know? They’re smart smart, like you. I’m smart, and the lack of that extra smart makes a real big difference.”

As Alfred kept talking about the godly brains that were chosen to study at Oxford University and at Cambridge, Matt placed his forearms onto his book and rested his cheek in his palm, observing his friends’ passionate ramble with a little smile. Gosh, was it good to come home once in a while. Alfred carried the liveliness of a whole city on his shoulders alone; God forbid Alfred ever going to the city with Matt.

“... So… I don’t know…” Alfred slumped back in his chair when his talking fuel ran cold, his energetic eyes carrying a tint of uncertainty, “Since Newcastle isn’t as fancy, maybe there’s a chance I could get in?”

After that, there was nothing. Surrounded by books and the shelves they rested in, Alfred and Matt let the question hang in the air. Perhaps if one of the books were alive, it would write down the question on one of its pages and keep it there until god-knew-when. As the question mellowed into the air, the boys listened to people walking by outside. They knew every voice, knew exactly which pair of eyes glanced at the faded brown exterior of the house. There went yet another elderly couple who lived near the train station, then passed the Hungarian hairdresser with the German-speaking girl she had brought to the village. Smalltown was indeed an English village, but it might as well just be called a melting pot of every European country.

“I know I’ve said it before, but…”

Matt was the first to break the silence, “I really think you should ask your dad to help you.”

As expected, Alfred rolled his eyes and groaned, muttering “Here we go again” under his breath. Matt was about to protest, but as always his gentle voice got swept away like dust on a dust board if Alfred had anything to say against it.

“Again: You can tell me as many times as you want, I’m not listenin’,” he established, “I owe him way too much to ask him for money, and I’m not just saying that because it’s cool or virtuous, I’m saying it because it’s true.”

“Because he doesn’t want to help you, or because you think he doesn’t want to help you?”

“None; Because I don’t want him to help me.”

Matt inhaled sharply through his nose and released it in a sigh of defeat. Alfred did the same and crossed his ankle over his knee, as well as his arms as he observed a slightly fidgety Matt through his forelock. The poor boy, thinking that a trivial raise of voice here and a harsh delivery of words there was considered an argument worth getting agitated over. If he looked closely enough, he spotted the slight red tint in Matt’s cheeks and the blankness in his eyes.

“I still think you should, but you don’t need to listen to me,” Matt said, his eyes still averted, “I’ll still help you with studying if that’s what you want.”

Satisfied with the answer, Alfred uncrossed his leg and adhered his gaze to the book about Mesopotamia.

And again, there was nothing.

* * *

Alfred turned the doorknob leading him into his house when it was late in the evening. However, instead of having to announce he was home there seemed to be a most dissatisfied welcome committee ready to greet him when he opened the door.

“Hiya, Dad!” Alfred greeted uncertainty, bending down to untie his shoelaces when the familiar whack of a rolled-up newspaper struck the back of his head. He straightened his back, shielded his head with his hands and pouted.

“What’s wr-”

“How utterly stupid can you be to leave the goddamn window open in February?”

Arthur whacked Alfred once more, which was when Alfred noticed the thin blanket his dad so tightly clenched around his body. Alfred was ready to apologize and lie about never doing it again, but if he didn’t know better, he could vividly recall closing it.

“I did close it, though,” he said.

Arthur looked at him blankly.

“Yeah, right,” he mumbled before sighing and wrapping up his boy’s shoulders in the blanket he had previously worn, “Leftovers from yesterday are on the stove.”

Alfred watched as Arthur properly adjusted the blanket on his shoulders so it wouldn’t fall off, before gluing his eyes to his narrow back as he made his way upstairs.

“Dad, hold up-”

Arthur stopped in the middle of the staircase and cast a tired look at the boy standing beneath it. Alfred caught his breath in his throat, not sure whether to let the words on his mind come out along with it. He had ever so mindfully considered what Matt had said, and although he terribly wanted to deny it, he could have come much farther in his dream if he just asked for help. But there was that… And then there was that. There were many things in the way of imagination becoming reality. Asking Arthur to provide a little help, even if he was an ex-soldier and most probably richer than this entire village, wasn’t written anywhere in Alfred’s moral compass.

“Thanks… For the blanket?” Alfred concluded, cringing at himself for even having considered the possibility. The man had helped him hundredfold what Alfred could ever repay him anyway.

“Alright, then,” Arthur nodded and shuffled up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- “Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?” (French. “What’s the matter?”)  
> \- “J'ai eu une réponse de l'université” (French. “I got a response from the university”.)
> 
> Seeya next week!


	4. The world is small when your name is Kirkland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> Here come more characters yay!  
> On a sidenote, I am at this moment writing chapter 14, and I know the chapters I’ve posted so far are progressing a bit slowly (maybe) which is due to the chapters being shorter than the Asian genes my mom gave me. But I do hope you guys will stick around to the end (which is around chapter 30/40 given the brevity of the chapters), because I truly enjoy this story!
> 
> Anyhow, chapter 4, let’s roll!

The entrance door to the inn flew up, almost slamming into the wall, and the one responsible stumbled into the inn’s lobby.

“I’m… Here…” Alfred panted and supported himself on his knees. Had the temperature been significantly colder inside, his head would have already been engulfed in a white cloud. Behind the lobby’s counter sat the Lithuanian innkeeper, Toris, his eyes having left the newspaper and now looking questioningly at the boy who was so desperately catching his breath.

“Good morning, Alfred, but why the haste?”

Alfred swallowed a few times before straightening his back and closing the door that separated the outside from the inside.

“Breakfast, right?” he asked and shot a careful glance at the receptionist. Toris’ eyes widened slightly before the question mark on his face broke into a lustrous chuckle. Alfred had not the slightest idea of what was worth laughing about, in fact he felt somewhat hurt for being made fun of after all the hassle he had gone through this morning to get on time - Even if he was quite late. He pouted as he watched Toris put down his newspaper and came forth from behind the counter, holding up his forearm to expose the back of his wrist.

Then he just stood there, staring anticipatingly at Alfred.

“N-nice watch…?” Alfred tried, his suggestion being rejected by Toris shaking his head. Alfred was close to losing his mind when he realized.

He had arrived a whole hour too early.

“Get it now?” the Lithuanian smiled cheekily. He went behind the counter and grabbed his coat and scarf, before making his way to the little cafeteria at the end of the hall. Alfred followed defeatedly. As the two quietly made their way down the hallway, Alfred heard slight murmuring from the rooms they passed by, indicating that some of the inn’s guests had already greeted their beds good morning. But seeing as breakfast wouldn’t be served in another one and a half hours, the ones who were awake were most probably heading over to the grocery store or the bakery.

Toris poured a generous amount of coffee into two cups, handing one to his employee. He opened the glass door leading to the cramped, but cozy, veranda outside the breakfast hall just in time to see the morning sun heating up the village.

“Even if you had come an hour later, you’d have been quite tardy,” Toris remarked. Alfred chuckled, because Toris was probably the only person who could say such a thing without sounding at least a _little bit_ passive-aggressive.

“The old man managed to fall down the stairs right before I left,” Alfred spat after taking a hearty sip of his coffee, “There was an ungodly crack coming from his rib too, so we panicked. He’s fine but _man_ , I was mad scared!” Toris didn’t even have to look at him to catch the concern hiding behind the condescension in his eyes. After all, he knew all about how indebted Alfred felt toward the Englishman, and while newcomers might interpret the diverse and colorful insults coming from inside the Kirkland house as abuse, everyone else knew that it was far, far from it.

“I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Toris said simply and put the coffee cup on the little table between him and Alfred, before resting his hands in his lap, “At least he should because we have one more thing to be concerned about.”

“Why so?”

The brunet looked into his hands and it didn’t take long before there was a dramatic shiver in his voice.

“Mr. Braginski will be checking in soon, but I’m not sure when.”

Alfred childishly scrunched up his nose.

“That money bag ain’t getting a single inch of this inn, that’s for sure.”

“It’s good to hear that you think so too.”

The two took a few breathers in the crisp morning air, enjoying their coffee, letting the sounds of a slowly awakening town sing through their ears, before finally deciding to get the day started. 

* * *

“Mornin’, good sir! How’d you sleep?” Alfred cheerfully greeted yet another guest who had come to the cafeteria to eat breakfast. It was most probably a guest who had checked in fairly recently since Alfred couldn’t remember his face, and last time he had worked at the inn was three days ago.

“Slept like a rock!” the guest replied equally cheerfully. Alfred was aware that he himself tended to have a wild look, but this guest looked even wilder! With a band aid across his nose, gravity-defying, brown hair and shoulders like a gifted swimmer, there was no way tiny, little Alfred could measure up to him.

How extremely fun!

“How about you, miss?” Alfred bent down to address the girl holding the guest’s hand, who gave off an entirely different aura than the man Alfred for now guessed to be her father.

“Just fine, thank you,” she replied politely, but it was clear that she kept that image only because she had to.

Excited to chat with them and hear their stories about the world where Alfred had never been, Toris interrupted Alfred’s route of action when he entered the cafeteria as well.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Kirkland!” he chirped and proceeded to chatter with the beaming pseudo-swimmer as if there was no tomorrow, while the young girl grew tired of waiting and sat down by a table once she had filled her plate.

Alfred, on the other hand, had his eyes intently affixed to the guest who bore the same surname as his dad, thus also himself.

“You’d think that spending time in a tiny town like this would be a shock coming from the heart of Sydney, but I have to admit that I wish we’d stay longer!”

“You’re heading further up today, if I remember correctly?”

“Aye. Dunno what we’re gonna do up there, but unexpected things always happen on trips. And if we could make it all the way to Scotland, that’d be-”

“Hold on- _Kirkland_?”

Toris and the guest, whom Alfred by now had judged to be English with a deeply mixed in Australian accent, halted their conversation and looked his way with risen eyebrows, but while the mock-Australian kept the question mark lingering on his face, Toris chuckled as he realized what this was all about.

“Do you know someone named Arthur Kirkland?” Alfred asked, his blue eyes radiating with a childlike confusion and curiosity. The mock-Australian observed him with squinting eyes for a while, before breaking into an amused laughter and slapping him on the back.

“That might be my older brother, that!" he beamed, "Who's he to you?"

"My old man!"

The mock-Australian’s eyes grew wider than they already were, before he grabbed Alfred’s hand, shaking it casually as he gave him another vigorous slap on the back. Then he leaned in close and lowered his tone.

“Fair dinkum?”

Never having heard such a phrase in his life, Alfred grinned eagerly and nodded, certain that it was the appropriate reaction. When the Australian bounced back to his high spirits, a problem had occurred in the cafeteria due to someone spilling their coffee, and Alfred had reluctantly had to cut the conversation short. The older one was comprehensive and told him to do his thing, promising to catch up with him before leaving the inn, and so Alfred grabbed a couple of tissues and headed over to offer his service.

* * *

A little past ten o’clock, the cafeteria was vacant except for Toris and Alfred who were scrubbing the tables and chairs, as well as packing down the food so it would stay fresh for tomorrow’s breakfast. As his hand slid from right to left repetitively in a scooping motion across the table, Alfred found himself in a mindful haze, his body relying solely on his autopilot-mode. Alfred had never heard from Dad’s relatives before and had to be reminded that they existed to acknowledge the fact that there were other Kirklands out there too. What Alfred couldn’t wrap his head around, though, was why this phony Australian swimmer had traveled all the way from Australia, even stopping in a place as insignificant as Smalltown, without paying a visit to his brother. Either he must have not known where he lived, or it was deliberate and caused by some family feud. Man, whatever wars did to families, it always ended in some complicated farce.

“Oi, Kirkland!” came a prompt voice. The mock-Australian peeked his head through the cafeteria door. Alfred glanced at Toris as if to ask for permission to take a small break from work, to which Toris nodded knowingly. Alfred sat down by the table he had just cleaned, the Australian following. He soundlessly pulled the chair out, flopped onto it and leaned back with his arms resting on the back of the chair.

“Where’s the little one?” Alfred asked, craning his neck to see if she was coming anytime soon.

She did not.

“She’s waitin’ impatiently for me in the lobby, scared we’ll miss the train,” said the brunet and popped a wide grin as he inspected the boy in front of him, “Never thought I’d see Artie _actually_ get a kiddo!”

Suddenly he reached his hand across the table, fingers stretched toward Alfred.

“Jack Kirkland, young one is Wendy.”

“Alfred, sir!” Alfred disclosed and gave Jack’s hand a firm shake. Then, as quickly as he had introduced himself, Jack was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Fair dinkum". Australian slang to express something as being true or genuine. In the case of this story, "Are you for real?" Funny phrase, isn't it!
> 
> Seeya next week!


	5. Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone!
> 
> I have no idea how many are, or aren't reading, BUT we are now entering a stage where lots of characters will be introduced, hallelujah XD I don’t have too much to say today, so I hope you enjoy the read!
> 
> Let’s roll!

With new cash in his pockets, Alfred walked out on the main street. There was a light skip in his step as he made his way down and greeted every person he came by, and the people joyfully greeted him back. Although an everyday occurrence, being greeted by villagers evoked a profound sense of togetherness within him. To Alfred these gestures would never stop being a refreshing experience. A contrast to the past, maybe. When people looked at him and shared the livelihood in their eyes accompanied with sincere regards, with the half-torn down village behind them, it stuck with him all the way until he went to sleep and dreamt about it.

Eventually Alfred reached his destination. The park; A square of green no bigger than a spacious kitchen with a gravel path slithering through. The two benches facing opposite directions glittered in the sunlight due to the thin layer of icy crystals, the big rocks and boulders likewise. Now that winter was starting to fade away, it was high time to prepare the park for the season when most tourists would pass through.

Alfred didn’t see her at first, but when he passed the bushes, they both jumped upon seeing each other. For a moment, they looked at each other before releasing a lighthearted laugh.

“Good morning!” Lily, another of the village’s few teenagers, politely greeted, folding her hands together on her knees and bowing her head slightly.

“Morning to you too!” Alfred chirped and crouched down next to her, watching as she carefully lay the flower seeds into the ground.

“Did you know that ‘pansy’ comes from the word ‘ _pensée_ ’ in French, which means ‘thought’?” Lily asked gently, her German accent charmingly coloring her words, before holding a few seeds out to Alfred, “You should try and plant a wish!”

Surprised, but delightfully so, Alfred took the seeds into his cold hands and hollowed out the soil, around seven inches between each hole. He planted the first seed.

“With all due respect, may this cold please go to hell, soon-”

“No, don’t say it out loud!” Lily laughed before Alfred could plant the next.

“Why not?”

Lily shrugged, “I’m actually not sure… But _bruder_ used to tell me that if you keep your projects to yourself, you’re more likely to finish them.”

“That sounds like a terrible thing to say.”

Dubiously squinting his eyes, Alfred snickered before looking back to the soil. Into the next pit he dropped another seed, this time muttering his wish with his internal voice as he covered the seed with the cold soil, ‘ _I hope some new kid moves into town so Peter will have a peer_.’

Then he planted another seed, ‘ _I hope Dad’s rib didn’t crack._ ’

With one seed left, Alfred felt it was high time to make a wish that was more extensive and serious. Of course, he knew what he would wish for, but he couldn’t quite put it into words. First of all, he hadn’t even sent an application to the university yet so it would feel strange to ask to be accepted. Second of all… Second of all… Why was he even overthinking this superstitious ritual? The flowers would probably be dead at the time he’d know the answer, and this little ritual was purely for the fun of it. It brought out the curious, wishful child in him to “plant a wish”.

‘ _I hope Dad will be proud of me._ ’

Alfred brushed the soil over the seed before observing Lily’s mother-like, nurturing movements, covering the seeds as if she were protecting a newborn baby. Her short, blonde hair framed her gentle smile, her hands so benign as if she might kill something if she were even the slightest more forceful. In that moment, Alfred asked himself why every friend he had was so timid and careful, and why he enjoyed their company despite the polar opposites he and they carried. Sometimes he even yearned for it. Even now, he’d love to spend some more minutes planting wishes, perhaps bring Peter if there would be a next time, but he realized that his reason for being in the park had yet to be executed.

“I’ll get started on my part of the job, then,” Alfred announced and got to his feet.

“What are you going to be doing?” Lily asked, looking up at him.

“Gonna move all these rocks, apparently we don’t want them here flattening the gr-”

In an instant, Lily too was on her feet.

“That sounds like heavy work, let me help you!” she insisted, already folding the sleeves of her woolen sweater. Alfred, however, waved nonchalantly with his hand.

“Don’t worry, Lily, I got this!” he winked, giving his biceps a little squeeze, “I’ll handle it on my own!”

Alfred turned on his heels and headed over to the boulders that lay more or less grouped together in the middle of the frozen plain, not seeing Lily slowly roll her sleeves down again and sitting back down on her knees, pulling the scarf tighter around herself.

As Alfred gave one of the rocks a push with his foot and it rolled slightly to the side, he cringed at the flattened, brown grass it had been shielding from the three months of winter. Already now he could vividly imagine a day in March or April when he’d be asked to trim the grass and sow new. Because the village was so small and unimportant, a tad ugly even, the park close to the town square was the only source of visual pride they had. Not that it was important to keep up appearances in the first place, since whichever tourists came through only needed a temporary stay before traveling further to the big cities, but while it _did_ serve the tourists to make the village pretty, many also thought of it as solidarity. People interested in symbolism and that type of thing thought of the green park in the middle of a war-ravaged village as a metaphor for hope. Alfred thought that was quite poetic. He just happened to hate poetry.

“Anyway,” Alfred pressed as he rolled a boulder to the path in the middle of the park, “Has Eliza recovered yet?”

If Lily had dog ears, they’d be perking up by now. She brushed the soil from her hands and turned to look at Alfred. “She did, and she’s doing very good!” Lily let out a brief giggle and averted her eyes.

“It turned out the reason she got sick was because she had somehow drunk from lake.”

“Oh, she did not,” Alfred gasped before breaking into a temporary fit of laughter, “And here I was thinking she was smart!”

“After that she had to throw up so often that she ended up cutting her hair short.”

“For reals?”

“Unfortunately.”

Chuckling, Lily grabbed a snippet of her own hair and pulled it slightly, “Her hair is shorter than yours now!”

Alfred almost did not believe it. Elizabeta had always been more or less known for her long and luscious hair. During his years of working and mingling with the townsfolk, Alfred had lost count of how many times the elders, uncle Francis, or Peter would comment on how long and bouncy her curls had become, and how many times she had done a flamboyant twirl to show them off. Safe to say, there would be a reaction from the townsfolk and Elizabeta would doubtlessly hear it.

“Sick,” Alfred grunted as he gave the boulder one last push.

“Yeah,” answered Lily.

* * *

In the afternoon, when the sun was starting its journey downward and Lily had gone home long ago after making 100 percent sure Alfred didn’t need help, Alfred himself strutted out of the park as the coins clinked and clattered in his pocket. He was however not heading home yet; He still had to study, so instead of waltzing into his own home, he entered the house next door.

After Alfred had waltzed inside without knocking and had been greeted by Francis, then striking a long-lasting conversation with him about everything that could possibly be spoken about, he found himself in Matt’s room with stacks of books in front of him. Matt likewise, as he hummed into a straw in a water bottle. However, none of them were reading the books.

“... And now her hair is apparently shorter than mine!”

“No way,” Matt gasped lightly, his eyes mirroring Alfred’s enthusiasm. Matt sat back on the floor, leaning backwards into his hands.

  
“The chemicals in the lake must have upset her stomach a lot,” he thought out loud.

“Mr. Moore told me that it’s getting worse every day,” Alfred added before lying down on his side, supporting his head in his palm, “But who cares about a village with thirty inhabitants when you have London, Manchester, Liverpool, whatever, that are in even worse states than here?”

Matt hummed briefly to express disagreement.

“Last time I went to Oxford, before we got sent home, it looked much better than it does up here,” he remarked, “I mean, those cities are much bigger, but because they’re cities, they have a lot more money to be fixed.”

“And have a higher priority,” Alfred sighed and rolled onto his back.

During the war, industrial waste had been dumped in the lake nearby. The reason was simply because it was deep enough that it wouldn’t be seen. Smalltown happened to be the only inhabited tract within a radius of more than ten kilometers, which had indeed been done on purpose to make a safe place (as safe as possible, at least) during the war. However, for every blessing there was a prize to pay. Even though the government was the founding fathers of the town, and multiple other “Smalltowns”, the lack of being officially acknowledged as proper places of permanent residence automatically put them at the bottom of the government’s priorities. And now, the waste the government had allowed to be dumped in the lake despite the inhabitants’ protests, had begun causing problems.

“Reminds me that I gotta buy water before I go home,” Alfred muttered. Matt sighed in response and put his little water bottle away.

“So do I. I’d forgotten that _papa_ asked me to.”

The boys let themselves immerse in the calmness of the afternoon for a few moments longer, before finally getting to their feet. Out the door the boys trudged and headed for the market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Pensée". French, "thought".  
> \- “Bruder”. German, “brother”.  
> \- “Papa”. French, “dad”.
> 
> Seeya next week!


	6. The Kirklands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone!  
> This chapter was a delight to write and hopefully just as delightful to read!
> 
> Let’s roll!

Alfred struggled greatly to open the door since he refused to set the heavy bottles on the ground, but eventually managed to turn the handle by swinging his right forearm onto it, pushing down and toward the right. He stumbled through the door, flexed his foot to hook it to the side of the door, then pulled his leg in quick enough for the door to build up momentum to slam shut. He fully ignored the surprised and dejected scream from the second floor as the wallop shook the house. After kicking off his shoes, Alfred dragged the bottles down to the basement. He shuddered at the temperature as it was colder than it was outside. He hadn’t found the 5-gallon bottles at the store today, so the 2-gallons ones would have to suffice. He hurried out of the basement, yet again slamming the door shut to which a terribly frustrated “ _Alfieeee!_ ” sang from above.

When Alfred arrived upstairs, he immediately saw why; Peter had been trying to build a Jenga-tower, its pieces now scattered all over the floor.

“You know, Al,” Arthur muttered from the chair he never left unless he made dinner, focused on his embroidering, “Being a little bit more careful with the door costs less than having to repair it.”

“I’ll just fix it myself then,” Alfred grinned mischievously before flopping onto his knees next to Peter, who sent him a dirty look.

“I’m sorry ‘bout your tower, I’ll help ya re-build it!” Alfred reassured before scooping all the wooden pieces back. He shoved most of the pieces to his brother who let Alfred gather all the pieces as he started building another tower. First two parallel pieces, and then two on top lying across so it formed a square. The first 24 pairs went up fairly easy, a miniature tower now standing erect on the floor, but now that they were approaching the halfway mark, they bit their teeth together as they became more self-aware of their hands’ movements.

“How far did you get before it collapsed?” Alfred asked, his voice monotone to mirror his minimal movements.

“I was done, I was just trying to pull the pieces out,” Peter replied equally concentrated as he placed block number 42 onto the tower.

“I didn’t even know you had this,” Alfred noted, placing block number 43.

“Daddy helped me clean my room today and we found it.”

“Well, blow me down, did you finally clean.”

Peter huffed at his brother’s unsolicited sarcasm.

“Well, when I walked into your room I saw ten spiders.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did _not_!”

“Did too!”

“Did n-!”

His heart caught in his throat when Alfred felt his elbow brushed past the tower. He let out a gasp as he held his hands on each side of it without touching it.

“ _Alfie_ -!” Peter squeezed out as he held his breath.

The tower didn’t move at all, but the boys did their best in not making any sound nor movement, afraid that the slightest vibration in the air could tilt it over. They stared at the tower until they deemed it safe and gave each other a nod. With a strained and relieved sigh, Alfred withdrew his hands and picked up another block.

“Let’s not fight yet,” he suggested, waiting for Peter to place block number 47 before he placed number 48.

The boys sat in silence, and soon the tower was only missing one piece. Peter swallowed before looking at his older brother.

“Can you place it?” Peter whispered, eyes wide and desperate.

“No way, _you_ do it,” Alfred hissed back and crossed his arms. He could feel Peter’s blue eyes try to dig through his skin, but Alfred made sure he wouldn’t succeed. After having knocked down the tower once already, he did not want to shoulder the blame if it fell again. His brother was too unpredictable, too impish, for Alfred to ruin his brother’s creations twice in a row. Instead he observed as Peter stared daggers into the tower. Slowly, he lifted his right hand which held block number 54. His little hand approached the tower in every way but steadily, de-accelerating as the inches decreased. He swallowed once before lowering the block onto number 51 and 52, immediately withdrawing his hand when he saw his duty done.

The boys shifted their gaze from the wooden blocks, now neatly stacked on top of one another, to each other and broke into a wide grin.

“And now I’ll ruin it-” Peter said blatantly as he raised his hand with a maniacal laughter, which resulted in Alfred screaming in protest, unintentionally hitting the tower with his foot in an attempt to shield it from what he didn’t know was a joking threat. Again, the sound of 54 wooden pieces crashing down and scattering across the floor rattled throughout the warm living room. Before Alfred could try and explain himself, Peter’s shrills filled the space.

“ _Daddyyyyyyy_!” he wailed and pointed at his older brother, “Alfie ruined the tower again!”

“Wha- No, I didn’t!” Alfred quickly objected as he sputtered how Peter was threatening to knock it over and that all he wanted was to protect it, not aware of the sneaky smirks Peter peppered in between fits of helpless sobbing.

“Listen, I didn’t even know you were playing Jenga the first time it fell!” Alfred argued, genuinely agitated, gesturing wildly with his hands and looking from Peter to Arthur while trying to earn their trust, “A-a-and you were the one who made me have to defend it in the first place!”

“It was just a joke, it’s not my fault you took it seriously!” Peter cried. Knowing he’d never get through, Alfred huffed and turned his back to Peter, not showing any sign of helping gather the pieces. If the kid wanted to sulk about it, so be it. Heck, if Alfred wasn’t completely out of his mind, he could ever so subtly hear a little chuckle hiding underneath Peter’s sobs. Alfred got to his feet and flopped onto the couch, watching Dad’s diligent hands meticulously lead the needle through the fabric. He often embroidered, and always on the same fabric; Always a piece of linen which had probably been completely white long ago, half of it covered with threads that had been embroidered onto it over the years. Also, how incredibly chipped did Dad's nails have to become before he deemed it necessary to stop picking and biting?

“Dad, know what,” Alfred initiated, Arthur responding with a short hum.  
  


“I met someone at the inn today.”

“Better be a fair maiden.”

“In that case, you’ll be disappointed,” Alfred snickered before leaning onto the armrest, “Jack and Wendy are sending their regards.”

For a split second, Arthur halted his movements, but proceeded with his activity as promptly as he had stopped. He replied with another hum, a longer one this time. Alfred lifted his eyebrows.

“You don’t seem too surprised?” he remarked, having imagined something more of an 'Oh, really?'.

Despite the black eyepatch over the right eye, Arthur kept his green eyes focused on the fabric in his hands.

“You could say there’s a bit of a tension between us,” he explained dully, bushy eyebrows slightly furrowing. Alfred didn’t say much but kept listening in case he’d reveal more. Neither Alfred nor Peter actually knew much about their dad’s background, other than that he grew up with his many brothers in Cotswolds, and somehow always managed to be neighbors with Francis Bonnefoy and his family. He had also served in the war with him until it ended 15 years ago.

“Right before Jack and I got separated into different troops and countries, we had a fight,” Arthur explained matter-of-factly, “One never knows who gets kids when, so we appointed each other as the godfathers of our children if we ever got any, given that we were in the middle of a war and all. But it’s difficult godfathering someone on the other side of the planet.”

Alfred let the information marinate in the back of his mind for a few seconds.

“I never thought about whether I have a godfather, but if I had one, I thought that would be uncle Francis? I mean- He kinda acts like it.”

Arthur chuckled. 

“He does, he really does,” he replied before putting the fabric away, tossing it onto the coffee table. He crossed his leg over the other, whimpering slightly from a discomfort in his ribs, as he sunk into the chair and cherished the last few moments before he had to prepare dinner.

“But he has his issues that I’d feel better not burdening.”

Alfred giggled sarcastically, “Are you saying that Matt is uncle Francis’ burden?”  
  


“Absolutely not what I meant,” Arthur snorted and cracked an ever so faint smile before getting to his feet.

“Do ya need help with dinner?” asked Alfred, ready to get up as well.

“You just sit down,” Arthur said waving his hand nonchalantly before walking over to Peter and crouching down.

“ _You_ , on the other hand.” He playfully pinched the boy’s little nose and gave it a slight, but firm, shake, “You barely helped me clean your room today so I’ll gladly invite you to help out with dinner.” Peter frowned at Arthur for a little second, sticking out his tongue at him when he turned his back to head to the kitchen, but ultimately complied. 

* * *

When nightfall was upon them and dinnertime had long passed by, Alfred decided it was time for bed since his jobs tomorrow started early and ended late. However, before he could make it out of the living room where his little family sat, Peter called out to him.

Alfred turned halfway around in the doorframe. Peter rocked on his heels where he stood, fiddling with the hem of his pullover.

“You’ve been working a lot and hanging with Matt…” he started, his words clouded by the slight hesitation in his voice, “But can _we_ hang out soon?” Alfred looked him up and down with surprise in his eyebrows. A smile then emerged on his lips as he brought his peace fingers to a meager salute.

“‘Course we can!”

Peter’s pout lit up. Arthur smiled to himself in his chair. Alfred wished them goodnight, and as always, the regards were sent right back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeya next week, folks!


	7. Guten Morgen, Alfred!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone!
> 
> This chapter made me realize how utterly short my chapters truly are, but I’ve written up to the halfway point like this, so no point in changing now XD Enjoy the read nonetheless!
> 
> Let’s roll!

Today had to be the first time Alfred woke up by having fallen out of bed. Quickly getting on his hands and knees out of startle, he desperately fumbled around in the dark for the clock. What in the world was even the time? What if it was way past his waking time due to habit? After all, he was getting up extra early today, so could it be possible that-  
  


_RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-_

Like the little attention seeker it was, the clock shrieked loud enough that Alfred jumped once more landing on his butt, before quickly crawling toward it to shut it off. With shaking hands and rapid breathing, he grabbed the clock from his nightstand and slammed the snooze button so hard he knocked it out of his own grasp. Now on the floor, the clock’s face met Alfred, and they both stared at each other with blank expressions. When the world finally settled around him and Alfred could tell left from right and up from down, he released a heavy sigh before he pushed himself to his feet. Though seemingly never running out of energy, he could swear on his collection of university rejection letters that these twenty seconds alone had drained 40 percent of his energy storage. Alfred sloppily hinged at his hips to pick up the fallen clock, put it on his nightstand, finally able to exit his bedroom to get ready… After finding some clothes, of course.

* * *

“Huh, fifteen minutes,” Alfred muttered under his breath as he opened the door leading to the crisp morning air. He had spent much less time getting ready than he had expected yesterday, which meant the current time was four-forty-five and Alfred had one hour and fifteen minutes to get to his first job of the day. He had found out quickly that breakfast this early wasn’t ideal, so he had brought it as a lunch later when he’d be on the train back. Thus, he had set foot outside the house earlier than necessary, which meant he had time to linger in the bakery before time became urgent.

Opening the door, the bell rang and welcomed him into the yellow warmth of the bakery. He tapped the tips of his boots to the floor to dust off whatever was hiding underneath the soles, before entering and closing the door behind him. He uttered a cheerful, yet gentle “ _Guten Morgen_ ” before approaching the counter. He craned his neck to see if anyone was hiding by the staircase in the back, earning his third jump of fright when the tall and sturdy German peeked up from behind the counter.

“So there _is_ someone here!” Alfred laughed before leaning over the counter slightly in hopes that he could immerse himself even more in the smell of baking bread.

“Good morning, Alfred,” said Ludwig, the shopkeeper, as he straightened up, “Are you working early today?”

“Yessir!” Alfred disclosed keenly before leaning back and fetching a few coins from his pocket, “To Hartlepool. Roundtrip ticket, _bitte_!”

Since the bakery was the closest public facility to the train station, one could also purchase train tickets. Now this was something that used to greatly confuse travelers, and Alfred could recall that one summer three years ago when he and Lily had to make and put up a sign outside the bakery that train tickets had to be purchased there, as well as a sign at the train station that said “No, you can’t buy tickets here. Go to the bakery with the scary-looking German (he’s very nice) and he’ll happily aid you :D”. Though it had started as a joke, they ended up writing it and it remained one of Alfred’s most memorable achievements to this day.

“If you see Gil, tell him I don’t want him back,” Ludwig said as he slid the train ticket across the counter toward Alfred. The younger laughed before stuffing the ticket in some random pocket. Ah, brotherly love.

  
“Will do, sir.”

Eventually Alfred stood and waited on the train to arrive, in the company of no one. He had stood outside the bakery after the delightful small talk to appreciate his last minutes in the lovely smell and, had to be reminded of his duties by the honk from afar. Now he followed the train with his eyes as it glided across the empty landscape, honking yet again as if to make sure everyone acknowledged its presence. And if that wasn’t enough, yet another honk sang through the February skies, probably waking up the inhabitants of the town that hadn’t woken up by the first two. It was a rare occurrence however that someone honked more than once, but today was most probably a bit special. If Alfred didn’t know better, the train conductor today had to be…

About five minutes after Alfred had found a seat in the empty train and his body was threatening to doze off, someone screamed into his ear, “Good morning, _Schlafmütze_!” Looking up in a moment of surprise, Alfred confirmed his intuition; Silvery white hair and eyes a color that wobbled in between crimson and fuchsia, not at all like his brother in the bakery, a uniform-clad Gilbert laughed loudly and heartily.

“Gil!” Alfred exclaimed, his drowsiness wearing off as quickly as cheap anesthesia, as he sat erect in his seat. He intended to ask about his whereabouts these last two weeks, but decided to snarkily comment on the hair that had grown a bit since last time instead.

“Can you believe that I didn’t find a single hairdresser anywhere,” Gilbert said and leaned against the wall before muttering, “Eliza better do my awesome hair justice when I get back.”

“Oh!” Alfred exclaimed quietly before eagerly leaning forward in his seat, “Did you know that she cut her h-”

He stopped mid-sentence. Alfred wondered if maybe it’d be better if Gilbert found out on his own. An urge so strong that he felt it like a knot in his stomach to see his reaction dangerously tempted him to inform Gilbert here and now that Elizabeta had lost her princess-like curls, but Alfred got the better of it and decided against. If Gilbert were to react to her new hairdo in the way most people anticipated, Alfred would definitely hear it no matter where in town he was. 

“She what?” Gilbert inquired, crossing his arms.

“I meant- She got really sick recently,” Alfred said as he leaned back in his seat again, “Because she drank from the lake.”

The German let out another vigorous guffaw, clutching his stomach and wiping a tear before holding onto his knees and leaning forward slightly.

“For reals, man,” Gilbert squeezed in between small fits of chuckles.

“Yeah.”

Apparently, Gilbert hadn’t believed Alfred the first time, because now he stood stiff like a walking stick with eyebrows raised. His smile had faded and become more reminiscent of a ruler.

“Wait, for real?”

“Yeah.”

The two fell into a solemn, gloomy silence in respect for their fellow townsperson. Perhaps most sympathetic of the two was Gilbert, as he too had been stupid enough to drink from the lake once (multiple times) during his residency. It had caused him various stomach issues, bipolar fevers and thinking he was going to die, which displeased him greatly because he’d rather not his death be remembered because of diarrhea. Then again, unlike Elizabeta who was usually smart but happened to make a wrong decision, Gilbert’s stupidity was a constant which meant that there was endless potential for him to make another great mistake very soon.

“She better recover soon or else I’m gonna grow a mullet, which is _totally_ un-awesome,” Gilbert sighed eventually. He straightened his posture where he stood and adjusted the Prussian blue cap that matched his uniform, before reaching out his hand toward Alfred.

“Ticket.”

Though surprised by the sudden change in atmosphere, Alfred fetched his train ticket from his coat’s pocket and held it out between the tips of his index and middle finger. Gilbert chipped it.

“Say, what are you even saving up money for? If you’re willing to get up before the goddamn sun, you gotta have _some_ image in mind?” Gilbert asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Alfred said and smirked secretively.

It was clear Gilbert wanted to be let in on the fun, but suddenly Alfred remembered something. There was a brief silence.

“Also, Lud doesn’t want you back.”

Gilbert wheezed.

“I’ll make my return so awesome he’ll even less want me there.”

* * *

A little more than an hour later, including walking distance, Alfred arrived at the farm that he visited every now and then to help with sowing or harvesting. Familiar with the process, he needed not make his presence known to the owners of the farm but would of course not pass an opportunity to greet them if he saw them. With a big basket in hand, as well as gloves that would keep his hands clean and warm, the blonde stripling energetically made his way to where the leeks grew. If he were lucky, perhaps the owners would give him a little basket of assorted crops again when he was done.

Not unlike other times Alfred had been to the farm, he didn’t catch a single glimpse of the owners until his work was done. When he dropped the last leek into the basket, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, checking if he smelled funny yet in the process. He got to his feet and made a deep backbend, rejoicing at the delicious cracks from his spine. He picked up the basket and walked across the acre toward the house. Once there, he placed the basket in a shed right outside the entrance before ringing the doorbell. Like always, it took some time, but eventually a timid figure opened the door.

“ _Ertu búinn_?” he said a bit stiffly, which Alfred presumed was shyness. Though he wasn’t sure if the boy had asked a question or just made a general statement due to linguistic unintelligibility, he happily exclaimed a “I’m done, sir!” and gestured to the basket that was full of leeks. The boy nodded promptly before heading back inside, but not before telling Alfred “ _komdu inn_ ”. Closing the door gently behind him, Alfred looked around inside the rustic home. It had better insulation than his own house, and it was bigger, but the interior looked just as shabby. He had been inside this house once or twice before, and even if it was around two or three years ago, it didn’t seem like anyone had tried to renovate. Apparently, no matter how rich someone was, there were simply some things that could never be shielded from the effects of war.

The boy returned to Alfred with a small, auburn basket. While keeping his distance, he reached the basket filled with parsnip, turnips, leeks, and Ashmead’s kernel apples, as well as a little fabric pouch containing coins, forward. The poor boy’s cheeks resembled an early sunrise, and Alfred couldn’t help but slightly resent whoever had sent him in their stead.

“ _Þakka þér fyrir... Mik- mikla vinnu_ ,” he stuttered. Alfred gladly accepted the basket and gave the boy a little ruffle on his head. It wasn’t necessary for him to understand the words to catch a vague idea of what the sentiment behind them was.

“Thanks, little man,” he chirped before exiting the house with a little salute. With the sun finally above the horizon, Alfred marched contentedly across the acre with sunshine lighting up his eyes. Although a bit tired and probably starting to smell like the hard worker he was, he headed to the train station and waited for the train en route back to Smalltown. There was still lots of work to get done today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Guten Morgen". German, "good morning".  
> \- “Bitte”. German, “please”.  
> \- “Schlafmütze”. German, “nightcap”. Figuratively it means “sleepyhead” :D  
> \- “Ertu búinn?”. Icelandic, “are you finished?”  
> \- “Komdu inn”. Icelandic, “come in”. Literally translates to “come you in”.  
> \- “Þakka þér fyrir mikla vinnu”. Icelandic, “thank you for your hard work”.
> 
> I just want to say that I check the language as well as I can, but I sadly do not know many Icelandic nor German people to fact check for me, so apologies for any mistakes!
> 
> Seeya next week, folks!


	8. Exhausted, but delightfully so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone!
> 
> I wrote the story’s halfway point yesterday, and today we’re diving eeeever so slightly deeper into Al’s psyche that’s going to lead us there.  
> Enjoy the chapter! ^^
> 
> Let’s roll!

Once, Alfred couldn’t count how many years ago, his stomach rumbled like it had never done before in his unfortunate, young life. He knew nothing about his whereabouts except that he was most likely in Manchester somewhere. As he stumbled down an alley, shielded from the streets and the atrocities conducted there, he finally laid eyes on something that resembled black, shiny pillows. Walking a bit closer, he confirmed that they were bags for garbage disposals, and his little hands eagerly opened the biggest one. Before he could stick his arms inside and look for some moldy bread, heaps of possibly months-old food fell out in a pile, its smell likewise. It was the first time Alfred had felt so utterly repelled by food when his stomach rumbled.

This was the first thing Alfred could think of when he set foot back on the ground in Smalltown after another hour of train-faring. There was a pungent smell - this time not bread baking - filling his nostrils; A preposterous mix of rotten eggs mixed with the metallicness of rust. Every time he returned from places farther than a fifteen-minute train ride away from the village, his nose had lost its desensitization to the peculiar smell that emitted from the lake. He would truly never get used to it.

It was now around 10 in the morning. A little before, actually, so Alfred decided he had time to quickly go home and put away the basket of greens. In less than ten minutes he had dropped off the basket and was now approaching the Vargas’ brothers’ workshop. The lights were on which meant that they were at work already, so Alfred walked straight inside.

“ _Ve_ , good morning!” Feliciano chippered upon noticing him after having turned off the welder and lifted his goggles.

“ _Buoooongior-_ Woah!”

Alfred caught his salute in his throat when he laid his eyes upon the steel frame that stood ever so majestically in the middle of the room. The steel gave off glimmers in the sunlight that shone through the long and narrow windows. And although Alfred had difficulties imagining how utterly _awesome_ it would look with the metal materials laid on top, it was as if the frame itself sufficed. Even if it lacked wings. With eyes as wide as saucers and mouth agape, he neared the frame, his gaze gluttonously devouring it.

“Cool, _riiiight_?” Feliciano smirked, visibly satisfied with Alfred’s reaction.

“Dude, it’s _hella_ cool…” Alfred looked up at Feliciano briefly and tore himself from his little daydream, “What am I supposed to do today? Weld it? Assemble metals ‘n stuff? Or maybe- _Yo_ , am I gonna help with putting the engine-”

“Calm the hell down, will ya.”

From behind the plane’s unfinished tail, Romano came forth and put his own welder onto the bench conveniently placed next to him. He beckoned Alfred to come closer and rolled out the illustration on the bench.

“This looks neat.”

“I don’t care. You see these shapes here.” Romano tapped his finger on one of the uninformative shapes that were drawn next to the airplane, though Alfred didn’t figure out specifically which one due to the glove having widened his fingers greatly.

“Before we place the engine, we gotta mount the seat and foot space and front wheels. Then we can work on the wings.”

"Will we be done today?"

"I dunno. If you don't slack o-"

"How much longer till we can install the engine?"

"Ah, _che palle_ -"

Alfred beamed and firmly grabbed Romano’s shoulders, paying no attention to the Italian’s visible dismay.

“This is gonna be awesome, this baby’s gonna get done in no time!” he squealed before heading into the mess of cardboard boxes and tools. He eagerly looked for something that he could recognize to give him a sense of what to do, but when he found nothing, he helplessly turned back to the grouchy Italian and popped a sheepish grin.

“So, what exactly do I do?”

Feliciano giggled. Romano rolled his eyes and made some gesture that could impossibly mean anything friendly. He gave a nod in Alfred’s direction, his eyes looking as if they had never been wrong about overthinking or catastrophizing. With renewed energy coursing through his veins, Alfred pivoted and darted over to a few bigger boxes behind him. Upon opening them, he saw something he presumed was going to be the seat. It was a white piece of hard plastic. In another one he saw pieces of metal shaped in an obtuse angle. What they were for he had not the slightest clue, but his fingers itched with excitement knowing that he’d go home today with the answer.

The work at the workshop went by relatively fast, with an intermission consisting of lunch at the bakery since it was next door. Alfred had been slightly shocked at how little Romano ate, not only in comparison to the hearty appetite that his brother and Alfred shared, but in general. From there they began talking about their childhood which led to talking about the war, which again led them to the topic of the polluted lake. It was a regular occurrence that conversations touched upon the topics of the war and the disheveled state in which the country was. Then people would naturally start talking about their experiences during the war. Alfred did for example not know that the Vargas twins came to Smalltown three years prior to him. What they did find out, though, was that they all shared the common experience of losing their guardian figures and meandering the streets. Then again, that was the past of many nowadays. After lunch, they had returned to the workshop in livelier spirits than before; Alfred and Feliciano talked even faster and louder, while Romano’s curses and patronizing comments became more colorful. By the onset of late afternoon and the framework of the wings had just started assembling, the boys leaned against the closest wall, counter, or flopped straight onto the floor.

“ _Mamma mia_ …” Romano sighed as he slid into a position in between lying down and sitting.

“I told ya we were gonna come far!” Alfred panted as he fluttered the collar of his shirt, sweat piling up on the old sweat from earlier at the farm. If he didn’t go home soon, his presence would definitely become a noseful.

“ _Ve_ ~,” came a sole, exhausted voice from the other side of the room.

It wasn’t the process of lifting and supporting that had knocked them over, however, even if they wanted to think it was. In their minds they bathed in the pride of having done heavy labor for hours, but everyone who had passed by knew that what ultimately pushed them to their limits was the labor combined with festive singing, shouting, possibly dancing and whatever other activities that served as a distraction. Yet thoroughly convinced that that wasn’t the case, Alfred noticed how a dry throat and tired vocal cords made it harder to catch his breath.

God, he was so ready to go to sleep.

Some minutes of sheer relaxation passed by before Feliciano got to his feet and hurried upstairs. He came back down with some coins and banknotes.

“Here you go,” he smiled and stuffed it into a pocket on Alfred’s coat which hung by the entrance.

With a sigh and a slight shake of the head to loosen up his neck, Alfred headed over to the door and threw the coat over his shoulder.

“I’ll head out then, thanks for today!” he said, the greetings returning in a merry tone, before finally entering the late winter air outside. He absolutely did not feel the need to put on his coat and would rather strip himself of everything called garments, and would probably have done so hadn’t it been for the fact that his workday wasn’t over yet.

Though… It wasn’t like he had to go. After having worked non-stop all day and even starting to see shapes float around in his field of vision, wouldn’t it be an acceptable excuse when talking with the main park keeper tomorrow? Frankly, Alfred could barely feel his arms at this point since most of today’s work had required the strength in his upper body, which had also taken a little toll on his back. Practically speaking it would be more effective if Alfred postponed the work until tomorrow when he felt better.

Though again…

“Hell, nah,” he found himself muttering to no one in particular, immediately resenting his current thought pattern. Sure, overworking oneself would never be a good thing, but he had to expect a few days every now and then where he had to force himself through it. Basic resilience, discipline, and focus; If Alfred counted on motivation to be the sole fuel for these elements, he’d never get anything done. Sometimes the work had to be done no matter how little he wanted to, and today was one of those days. So to the park he went, and he braced himself for the hours that lied ahead.

* * *

His legs felt like lead wading through thick, thick syrup. Even the littlest rock in his path felt like an obstacle, but at 9 in the evening, Alfred slammed his hand onto the doorknob and twisted. He pulled it open, staggered inside, and used the last of his strength to close it. The slightest movement caused a massive emission of the savory smell of hour-old sweat, as it drenched his clothes with a mix of now melted snow that had begun falling around an hour ago. About to announce his homecoming, Arthur unexpectedly showed up as he exited the basement.

“Well, hello to you,” he said before scrunching his face up in pure disgust, “You look awfu-”

Within a second, Alfred opened his arms with the smuggest grin on his face, and wrapped them around his dad in a tight, clammy and rancid embrace, to which Arthur responded with all nuances of cuss words and threats.

“I _woooove_ you, Dad!” Alfred cooed tauntingly. 

“You unhand me this instant! Do you hear me!? No dinner for you, you putrid disgrace, get off-!”

Peter quickly emerged from the living room curious about the ruckus, then running downstairs to join the fun. However, once he saw why this was happening in the first place, he backed away. Unfortunately for him, Alfred noticed. He let Arthur go.

“I _wooove_ you too, Peter,” Alfred said ominously, enjoying the great fear that welled up in his little brother’s blue eyes.

“Go away!” Peter shooed, slowly ascending the stairs backwards on his butt. He thought he was ready to run, but before he could even get to his feet Alfred leaped forward, grabbed him around the waist and yet another innocent civilian fell victim to his steamy hug attacks.

Amidst Peter’s half-elated, half-terrorized screams, and after Arthur had made sure his own clothes didn’t reek of sweat, Arthur begun walking upstairs, lightly slapping Alfred on the back in the process to get his attention.

“I heard they got funds to fix the lake,” Arthur started, voice raised slightly to not be drowned out by Peter’s shrieking laughter, “They’re starting in a week, so if you want to tag along for some coins I advise you tell Toris.”

“Oh, alright, but- Hey, hold up,” Alfred said as he tried to get Peter to sit still for just a few seconds, “Not to be mean, but I didn’t think Big T would be rich enough to do that?”

“He isn’t,” Arthur assured with a little chuckle, “The _Russian_ has been so kind to help out.”

Ah, so that was how it was. Few people wanted to be acquainted with Braginski, Alfred being no exception. However, this was the first time Braginski was offering the town a friendly gesture unless he had ulterior motives, so perhaps there was hope. Besides, who was Alfred to pass up a chance to earn money? Those Newcastle tuition fees wouldn’t pay themselves!

Alfred gave Peter a last tickle attack before commencing his evening routine of eating supper, washing himself thoroughly, getting changed, wishing his family “goodnight”, and concluding it by flopping onto his bed. Within what felt like a second, he was sound asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Buoooongiorno". Italian, "gooooooooood morning".  
> \- “Che palle”. Italian, “what balls” but is used to express “what a pain” or “how annoying”.  
> \- “Mamma mia”. Italian, “my mother”, used to express various emotions. But y’all knew that ;)
> 
> Seeya next week folks!


	9. The cool folks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! I hope you enjoy the chapter ^^
> 
> Let’s roll!

On the first day of March an alarm sounded through the Kirkland house. To no one’s surprise it was Alfred’s, and with a swift move he hit the snooze button and sat up in his bed. After sitting there for a few moments to stare at the wall, he swung his feet over the frame and got up as the woodwork creaked under his weight. It was now three minutes past six, and he realized that in the span of the past weeks, Alfred felt no closer to whatever goal he had.

Since today marked the onset of spring Alfred had headed to his workday thinking that it would be warm for some science-defying reason, then hurrying back inside to grab his coat. As he wrapped it tightly around his body to shield himself from the unexpected cold, he released a few curses to ride along the breeze. Hopefully, the ten-minute walk to the lake would warm him up. He heard a door click when he walked past the hairdresser and made eye-contact with Lily who had just stepped outside. She smiled, locked the door in a slightly hasteful manner before catching up to the boy who was probably a third of her own height taller than her.

“Are you going to the lake?” she asked and put the keys in her oversized coat’s pocket.

“I am! But I didn’t expect you were going too!” Alfred grinned and ruffled her hair.

“Ah, well,” said Lily hesitantly, “I know it’s going to be hard labor, but I’m ready for it.”

“Boss.”

The two walked the rest of the way, Lily in silence, as she appeased listened to Alfred rambling about what he thought the labor was going to be like. When they arrived at the lake, they both took a step backward along with a little gasp. Towering probably 50 meters above their heads was a tower crane, glistening in the modest sunrise. A wire just as long hung from the jib, its hook dangling above the water.

“I’ve had longer,” came a sassy female voice from behind them. Lily blushed, something Alfred had intended to join in on with a laugh hadn’t it been for the noticeable lack of hair on the person who stood there.

So it was true; The brilliance of Elizabeta’s curls was now a thing of history.

“ _Eliza-_ What the- You look _wicked_!” Alfred sputtered with his jaw agape and eyes wider than saucers. Not only had she just cut her hair shorter, but being a hairdresser she had shaved one side of her head and left awfully cool-looking stripes, and let a poofy portion fall on the other side. It was uneven, rebellious, somewhat messy… But _man_ , did it make a statement.

“I look amazing, don’t I,” Elizabeta snickered, “I guess drinking polluted water has its goods.”

“Your hair looks so much better than Gil’s, I’m tellin’ ya,” Alfred remarked, cringing at the German’s unholy semi-mullet.

“Then more cash for me!” Elizabeta chirped before she sighed and shifted the focus to the lake.

“I’m taking charge here until Gramps shows up, whenever that is.” She stepped in between the two and put her arms around their shoulders, and said, “Just you two wait here and you’ll get instructions soon.” Then she left.

Alfred and Lily looked after her for a moment as she walked toward the people managing the crane, before Alfred turned to Lily and dramatically clutched his heart.

“I will never be as cool as her,” he sobbed fakely, making a fist of his right hand, “Eliza is simply too cool.”

“So sturdy and reliable,” Lily added dreamily and looked up to the sky. Despite their theatrical act, it was a known fact that Elizabeta, along with a few other people, were considered among the town’s brains due to her reliability and sense for leadership and teamwork. Why she was only working as a hairdresser in Smalltown when she’d probably reach far in the city was beyond anyone’s knowledge, but Alfred and Lily both felt a spark of inspiration and aspiration upon looking at her. In these times Alfred greatly envied Lily for living with such a magnificent figure to be her guardian.

A few minutes later, when the March sun shone a little brighter above the mountain peaks, Gramps arrived at the site. Usually people rarely saw him, but for years he had been the unofficial mayor of the village. He delegated today’s tasks among the workers, many of whom Alfred and Lily did not recognize, and soon he stood in front of the two.

“You look sturdy,” he commented after eyeing Alfred up and down a few times, “You follow the other polishers, we have too few there.”

He then looked at Lily but didn’t spend nearly as long as he did on Alfred.

“You can join the kitchen.”

Alfred was about to strut satisfied toward the ‘strong people’ who were responsible for cleaning and polishing materials that looked reusable in case it could be sold for money to fund the lake fix-up. However, surprise got the better of him when Lily interjected a, although far from loudly, determined “Excuse me!”

Gramps turned his attention to her with a listening ear.

“I-if there are too f-few polishers, I can help!” Lily pressed before averting her gaze. Gramps however didn’t even think twice before turning away again.

“You’ll be exhausted in no time.”

As the older man walked away, Alfred cast a glance at Lily’s… Wistful eyes. Had she always been capable of that expression?

“Hey, Lily, you oka-”

Before Alfred could finish his attempt at reassuring her, Lily chuckled and another smile emerged on her adolescent, blooming face. She spun on her heels toward a group of ladies.

“I’ll see you later!” she said cheerfully and left. Alfred couldn’t stop her to pry into her problems, so he started walking the opposite direction. To the ‘strong boys’.

* * *

With legs crossed, Alfred had long started scrubbing the piece of debris that had floated in the water. He had not the slightest idea of what it was, and would have asked hadn’t it been for the five times he had already tried to make acquaintances but been ignored. Clearly, he wasn’t their type. Most of them knew at least one other already anyway since many came from outside towns to help.

“Yo, Kirkland!”

A voice Alfred faintly recognized but could not for the love of him place within his memory, shouted. About to look around, another person flopped down next to him with another undistinguishable piece of metal in his hands. He stared back as Alfred eyed his face thoroughly. The man looked young, but way past Alfred’s age. Maybe around Gilbert’s age; His thirties lying right around the corner. Then there was his voice that sounded naturally eager and upbeat, slightly nasal, to accompany the blonde hair that mocked the laws of gravity. The whole time Alfred eyeballed him, the name of the stranger felt like a sneeze that never came.

“Sorry, man, but who are you?” Alfred asked eventually, defeated and slightly, yet very visibly, frustrated.

The older one shot him a toothy, mischievous grin and continued scrubbing the rectangle shaped metal with a piece of steel wool.

“I’ll give ya a hint,” he said smugly before theatrically changing his demeanor to look uncertain and introverted, “ _Viltu blaðlauk_?”

The gears that made up Alfred’s mind grated for a second before he snapped his fingers in a moment of enlightenment, “The farm in Hartlepool!”

Since Alfred barely ever saw the people working at the farm whenever he was there, it had taken him some time to realize that the man was Mathias, the one Alfred had talked with the first time he had been to the farm to be taught various things. Which was around six years ago.

“Man, I was scared ya had forgotten about me!” Mathias laughed, “How are ya doing? Ya look so grown up since last time!”

“You too!” Alfred responded with a jovial grin. 

“That’s not a compliment when ya pass 25,” Mathias frowned playfully.

The two flipped their material in unison and began scrubbing the other side. The water had eroded what they assumed was once a brilliant silver, and the muck at the bottom had caused a brown discoloration. As if that wasn’t enough, the polluted water’s stench had smitten over to the debris as well, causing their hands to smell foul as they worked.

“Dumping waste in the water is so brainless,” Mathias started and released a tired sigh, “Really affects the crops in all the ways ya wouldn’t want it to.” Although Mathias seemed to have an endless abundance of positivity and optimism in him, his expression looked like that of someone who had complained to authorities, got “Yes, we’ll fix it soon” as a response, except it had been going on for years. Alfred didn’t know, but that was his presumption.

“It’s not only here they dumped waste, though I do think you folks have it the worst since your town is so small. But lemme tell ya that in these last thirteen years, I can at this point say that I’ve earned more money from helping out with waste cleaning than farming.”

“Is that why I never see you at the farm?” Alfred thought out loud.

“You betcha; Environmental service _and_ selling harvest. While I’m out, Lukas and little Emil do their thing on the farm and that’s how we make things go ‘round!” Mathias explained proudly, lifting his chin upward. Alfred was surprised.

“You mean there’s only three of you?” he asked, letting out a small whimper when he cut his finger on the sharp edge of the metal.

“Yeah! Ya think that’s too few?”

“ _Mno_ , I jus’ thought you w’re m’re,” Alfred mumbled as he sucked the blood on the side of his index.

“It’s just us,” the older man chuckled, “‘Till we find our other two brothers, it’ll be us. Oh, and by the way…”

Mathias vaguely mimicked Alfred’s pose, “Your stomach’s gonna feel funny tonight.”

The younger looked at him confused, before quickly withdrawing his hand from his mouth. God have mercy on him so he wouldn’t end up like Elizabeta… 

For the next minutes, the two of them engaged in small talk. During these minutes, however, Alfred had a knot growing in his stomach and did not know why. He somehow hoped it was the polluted water, but he knew that that wasn’t it. The knot in his stomach made him restless, hoping that his working day would last until late, late night. He found himself trying to slow down time by not interrupting the silences that naturally befell the conversation every now and then. Alfred had never been the kind of person to be in tune with his feelings - He had left that role to Matt - but if this knot interfered with his will to go home, then it must be something important. He just didn’t know what.

When lunchtime came around, Alfred sighed loudly as that signified his day of work halfway done. Whether from relief or dismay, he couldn’t determine. All he knew was that whatever his mind was doing, he did not like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- " Viltu blaðlauk?". Icelandic, "Do you want leeks?".  
> Seeya next week, folks!


	10. May the Lord make us truly Grateful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> I like this chapter, I hope you do as well!
> 
> Let’s roll!

Alfred had just parted ways with Lily after going home from the lake. Being late afternoon, Alfred thought he should go home to eat dinner, but decided to take a detour to the Bonnefoys first. He opened the front door and waltzed right inside, announcing his presence with a loud, “I’ll just hang out here, if that’s okay for ya!” to which Francis had replied with a “ _Bien sûr_!” from upstairs. Satisfied, Alfred headed to the door closest to his right and knocked forcefully before peeking inside. Matt was not present, so he wondered for a second if he’d have to study alone in someone else’s house. However, Francis would have most probably told him if Matt wasn’t home. With that in mind, Alfred grabbed one of the books from Matt’s bookshelves and flopped onto his back on the bed. Sprawling, he felt the relief in his upper body and lower back as he could finally relax, realizing how much they really hurt.

Not long into his relaxation, he heard someone in the hallway approach the open bedroom door, a static hum accompanying the light footsteps.

When Matt had stepped through the door frame, he simply closed the door and sat down by his desk to commence whatever studying he had been doing till now. He was still humming into the water bottle through a straw. None of them cast each other as much as a glance to acknowledge each other’s presence.

Alfred was currently reading a book about the bubonic plague, his eyes actively searching out the pictures. Though reading wasn’t boring in any way, he was much more drawn to illustrations, both because he enjoyed interpreting images rather than words and because they were way easier to see. How someone preferred reading to looking at illustrations, Matt being a prime example, he would never understand. Besides finding it difficult to look at the word itself, reading how the plague doctors wore black robes and beak-shaped masks didn’t intrigue him nearly as much as looking at the unnerving illustrations of humanoid birds with goggles, praying over a body covered in black boils and buboes the size of oranges. He also enjoyed the portrait of the Plague-hag that some Northern Europeans used as the plague’s personification. Being the caring big brother Alfred was, he had once shown Peter the drawing of _Pesta on the Stairs_ right before sleep. Ah, the fearful crying… Good times, good times. Except when Peter had taken his sweet revenge and gathered a cheap costume to scare Alfred back when he went to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

He must have fallen asleep, because it took Matt at least three calls before Alfred realized he had to open his eyes.

“Tired?” Matt asked, leaning the side of his torso onto the back of his wooden chair.

Alfred looked at him with droopy eyes before making a stretch so good his spine and limbs cracked, before relaxing again. “Super.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Matt muttered.

Feeling slightly attacked, Alfred wanted to ask but was too fatigued to bother. For a few seconds silence reigned between them, but apparently Matt had something he wanted to say.

“I’m going to Oxford with _papa_ soon, just for a short while,” he started.

“Cool! Why?”

“Because we want to know what the rest of the year will be like, and because they signed me up for the wrong classes for next year. Sending letters takes too much time so we’ll just talk with them directly.”

“I would hug you and whine that you don’t leave, but I’m too tired.”

Matt chuckled but didn’t say anything.

  
“Me ‘n Dad are gonna be _soooo_ lonely without you two,” Alfred pouted and put the book next to him on the bed before forcing himself to sit up, “Don’t you feel annoyed being followed around by uncle Francis, though?”

“I asked him to come with me,” Matt shrugged.

“So you just… Asked, and he said sure?”

“Yes.”

“ _Psh_.”

Matt looked at him with protest in his eyes before turning back to his desk again. With a heavy groan, Alfred swung his feet over the bed and planted them on the floor, grabbed the book he was reading and headed over to the end of the room where Matt was sitting. Next to the desk was the second window in his room. Tall and wide, there was little of the vast landscape it didn’t frame. Though there was nothing but grassland until it reached a dense forest, the window was perfectly placed to watch the scenery as the sky gradually darkened.

“Don’t you have to go home?” Matt asked quietly as he jotted things down in his notebook.

“You want me to leave?” Alfred smirked playfully at his friend, who paid him no heed. Though Alfred did think it was time to go home, even having thought so ever since he came, his feet wouldn’t move. Heck, Alfred was too young to make a habit of just staring out the window for no reason, but the more he thought of carrying his heavy, aching body back to his house, the less he felt like moving.

“ _Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_ ” Matt asked gently, now having put down his pencil and looking up at Alfred with attentive eyes.

“Just my tender physique,” Alfred sighed dramatically as his eyes reached the mountains towering over the forest. At least he wasn’t lying.

* * *

The door slammed shut when Alfred finally made it to his house and he collapsed onto his back on the floor, limbs spread to take up as much space as possible. There was nothing that could move him at this point, he was one hundred percent sure of it; Should a fire break out he would gladly let them consume him, if Dad came tumbling down the stairs again then let his ribs shatter for all Alfred cared, if it turned out the war wasn’t over and the Russians or Americans dropped a bomb over town, then for all that was good and pure, let it happen. Alfred was not moving. Not even when Peter came running downstairs and sat down atop his stomach with all the force his tiny body could muster.

“Alfie, dinner!” the young boy announced.

“I’m too tired to make dinner,” Alfred murmured and closed his eyes.

“No, there’s dinner on the stove!” said Peter, getting off with a little pressure so Alfred’s breath hitched in his throat. As quickly as he had come down, Peter headed upstairs again, “I wanted to wait for you before I ate!”

As Alfred lay on the floor with his eyes closed and body relaxed, he slowly picked up on the smell of dinner that he hadn’t noticed before due to the only thing his body focusing on was to lie down. Mmm… Mashed rutabagas. And meat. That meant that Dad had been in the kitchen for a long time today and assembled some godly dinner that would soon make its way into Alfred’s stomach, if Alfred could only find it in him to _get up_ first. After the umpteenth groan he had released that day, he pushed himself into a sitting position before planting his feet on the floor and finally straightening up. Man, was he ready for bed after dinner.

Alfred entered the joined kitchen and living room and noticed the lack of presence.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked as he made his way to the stove.

“In our room,” Peter replied, his face buried in his forearms by the dinner table. Alfred covered his hands with a kitchen towel before grabbing the handles of the casseroles.

“Doing what?”

“I dunno… But he’s not hungry.”

“After all the work of making this good food..?”

The older placed the food on the dinner table before taking the seat opposite of Peter. He urged Peter to lift his head, and in unison they put their elbows on the table and intertwined their fingers. Alfred sighed. It was rare for him to take this role.

“For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly Grateful,” he said calmly before bringing his knuckles to his lips, “Amen.”

Once the table prayer was executed, Peter grabbed the wooden ladle that lay across the mashed rutabaga and scooped a towering spoonful onto his plate, and then some more. He eagerly proceeded to grab a few (many) pieces of pork to put onto the bed of mash. When Alfred could finally start filling his own plate, Peter was well into the process of stuffing his mouth with warm, aromatic dinner.

“Yannow, if you were _that_ hungry you could’ve just eaten,” Alfred chuckled, pleasant chills running down his spine when the steam from his plate hit his nose. He hadn’t eaten since lunch which was six hours ago.

“ _Buft I duhdn’ wuhnna eat alone, soh I wa’ted_ ,” Peter protested, some of his food possibly ending up back on the plate.

“Dad didn’t eat?” Alfred asked, holding his palm in front of his mouth, as well as swallowing a good portion, to prevent the same thing from happening with him.

“ _Mno_ ,” Peter said before finally gulping down the food. However, being the clueless child he was, he loaded his mouth with another round before deciding to speak.

“ _I sehd he washn’ hangwy_.”

“Huh.”

As Alfred chewed down his food one fork at a time and his body rejoiced, he thought how utterly wasteful such a delicious dinner was when the whole family wasn’t gathered. Rarely, if ever, was the family incomplete during dinner time. The only exception was if one of them were so sick the mere presence of light made them dizzy, or if they were at work or visiting someone. Counting out these options, Alfred could not remember a single time they had been missing one.

“Maybe Dad’s sick,” Alfred muttered before putting his fork down, “I’ll go and check on him real quick.”

“Alfie, wa-”

Within a second, Alfred had excused himself from the table and made his way downstairs. He knocked once before opening the door, sticking his head into the bedroom that Arthur and Peter shared. Arthur looked up at him, his eyebrows risen.

“Hello, Al,” he said in a somewhat questioning tone.

“Ya comin’ for dinner?” Alfred asked half-enthusiastically and stepped inside. Besides looking slightly tired and not wearing his eyepatch, revealing a nasty and un-grown scar, he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary about Dad. Sitting on the bedside, he was even embroidering into that old fabric. However, he didn’t answer. He just looked at his son for a prolonged amount of time. Alfred however had no clue what he was trying to achieve by staring at him, so he slowly backed out the door again.

“I’ll just… Go, I guess-?”

“If you don’t mind, just leave me be for a while, all right?” Arthur eventually asked, his voice calm as ever. Though confused, Alfred nodded in compliance before closing the door. What a peculiar occurrence. Of course, bad days could happen to anyone, but it was unusual for Dad to hole himself up. Much less prepare a dinner so meticulous and proper and then not even doing the table prayer.

“He can just ask, huh”, Alfred muttered under his breath, not entirely sure where that came from. When he sat back at the table, the same knot that he had had at the lake, as well as at Matt’s, gnawed at his stomach. Though he did his best to keep up with Peter’s ranting about how frustrating it was that everyone he ever played with in the span of a day were at least 15 years older than him, he couldn’t put away the spiteful feeling that spread embers throughout his chest, and eventually he left the dinner table and said he felt unwell. He promised Peter he’d play with him soon if he’d be a good boy and clear the table.

  
Despite his body screaming for the sweet release of slumber, Alfred spent hours tossing and turning. He thought perhaps it was the water from when he had cut his finger on the metal earlier, and sucked on the wound, that was possibly starting to kick in. Ultimately, he decided to study. And then a thought befell him. Or rather, scratched his brain in a place that had been itching for a long time. Purely impulsive, an unpleasant intrusion that Alfred wished he could un-think: Would he have been closer to his goal if someone other than Arthur had rescued him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- " Bien sûr!". French, "Of course!".  
> \- " Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?". French, "What’s the matter?".
> 
> Notes:  
> \- Pesta on the Stairs is a painting from 1896 by the Norwegian artist Theodor Kittelsen. It depicts the personification of the bubonic plague, or “Pesta”, a figure which greatly affected the folklore of many northern European countries.
> 
> Seeya next week, folks!


	11. Peter's happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> I hope yall are liking the story! I am currently writing the final chapters, so I hope you’ll stick around! Thank you for reading ^^
> 
> Let’s roll!

The desk lamp illuminated the cold bedroom, bathing it in a dim, golden hue. It was now evening. Alfred pulled the blanket tighter around his body and adjusted his position on the wooden chair, now sitting with his right thigh pushing against his stomach to ease the stomachache, the other leg dangling from the chair. A diligent left hand worked its way across the page of a writing book, naturally smudging half of the notes in the process. The other hand made sure the other pages stayed on the desk, as well as keeping the hair from falling into Alfred’s squinching eyes. His lips muttered the words he wrote down. He had borrowed the book about the bubonic plague with Matt’s permission after promising him not to use it for intimidation purposes. Being a person of a little knowledge about everything, Alfred wasn’t one to go in depth of the material he was reading. That was why tonight, he’d try and learn as much about the plague as possible. Just to have tried diving deep into a topic for once. So far, he had found out that if the history of the world was a story written by God, the 13th century was the chapter He avoided talking about.

With shoulders hunched over the desk and a pencil scribbling across the page at the speed of sound, it took a while before Alfred noticed the soft knocks coming from his bedroom door. After a contented sigh, he stuck the pencil behind his ear and got to his feet. When he opened the door, he saw Peter in his excessively oversized pajamas holding his pillow, standing in the door frame looking like a lost puppy.

“Can I sleep here?” he asked, eyes averted.

Unusual of him to ask, as compared to simply opening the door and lying down on his bed without an explanation, Alfred pursed his lips and looked at his little brother comprehensively. He stepped aside and let the younger of them enter the room and climb onto his bed. Without a word spoken, Alfred lifted the duvet so Peter could slide underneath to be tucked in. When he was comfortably wrapped into the thin duvet, Alfred retrieved the books from his desk and climbed underneath the duvet himself, sitting up against the wall with the books resting on his crossed legs.

“What are you reading?” Peter asked, his words muffled by the pillow.

“Nothing special.”

As with Dad, Peter had yet to know about what Alfred had been working toward for the last two years. Matt was the only one who knew and Alfred had the feeling it would stay this way for a while longer.

The brothers became adjusted to the silence that settled between them, the low hum from the desk lamp being the only sound resonating within the walls. Eventually Alfred started reading again, finding it significantly harder to read the letters when the desk lamp wasn’t directly aimed at the page. He grabbed the book and brought it only an inch or three from his eyes. While the hardships didn’t exactly cease, at least he could focus on the letters and slowly make out the words written on the page.

“I can’t sleep when Daddy is tossing and turning so much,” Peter said.

“He didn’t seem too good today,” Alfred mumbled.

To Peter’s dismay the conversation ended there. Or rather, it _could_ have ended there.

“Do you wish you were in America instead?” asked Peter.

Immediately Alfred looked up from the book and at the young boy who was lying with his back facing toward him. “Why’re you asking that?” he said and hoped that the heat building up in his ears and cheeks, and the churning in his jaw, weren’t visible.

“Nothing special.”

Whenever Alfred recollected the few memories he had from his childhood, what came to mind most of the time was the big house and the maids, being rowdy with his classmates, the day the Statue of Liberty looking upon the world, and the day it fell which marked the end of the war, and the start of a life in refuge. He had read in countless books that America was the melting pot of an abundance of cultures due to immigration of people who wanted to “start a new life”. In that sense, America should be a blossoming land of the free, which it in many ways was. However, Alfred was born at the end of the war where there was no such thing as a “bright future”, an abundance of money nor gorgeous people. It was rather in a little village where everyone had stories like himself, Alfred felt truly at home.

“I’d rather stay here,” Alfred said and put his books on the floor.

“In Smalltown?” Peter followed up.

“Mhm.”

After yet another silence, Peter snickered.

“What does American sound like?” he asked and rolled onto his back so he could see his big brother’s face.

“You want me to speak American English?” Alfred chuckled quietly as to not wake his potentially sleeping dad in the next room. Peter grinned eagerly and nodded, pulling the duvet all the way to his nose so only his round, blue eyes peaked up at him.

Alfred was far from the best accent-impersonator and knew at least ten people better than him. During all those years he had actively tried to suppress his American accent, although his accent was noticeable in many ways, he had to strive to perfect it. He cleared his throat, exhaled, looked at Peter’s eyes revealing that he was already giggling, and put on the most melodramatic expression he could manage.

“ _Rhett_! _Oh, Rett_!” he sobbed as operatically yet quietly as possible, “ _Where should I go_? _What should I do_?” Then he paused and popped an exaggerated, careless smirk, “ _Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn_.”

Peter was hushedly cracking up in excitement, wriggling his whole body and hiding his face underneath the duvet to suppress the sounds he could barely contain. Alfred proceeded his show and reverted to the face of a despondent, young woman, before letting it fade into hopefulness.

“ _Terra… Home… I’ll go home… And I’ll think of_ some _way to get him back_.” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“ _After all… Tomorrow…_ ” Alfred sat up straight and grabbed Peter’s hand, “ _Is another day_!”

Under the duvet, Peter was nearly bouncing with delight, squeezing Alfred’s hand back. Alfred took great joy in seeing the happiness on his round and playful face, and exhaled satisfied before leaning back on the wall again, pulling the covers farther up his stomach. Ah… Vivien Leigh.

“The woman I just acted out was British, did you know that?” Alfred smiled as he had never thought of that before. Then again, his headspace hadn’t exactly been filled with _Gone with the Wind-_ quotes either since all he had been doing these last years was running from war and working his butt off.

“She didn’t sound like Daddy, though,” Peter said as his giggling slowly came to a still.

“What, you want a fair lady to come up and greet you with a ‘ _Roight!_ ’ instead of a soft ‘Hello’?” Alfred asked, once again triggering Peter’s laughing reflexes which in turn made himself begin cracking up.

“ _Gert lush_ ,” Peter squealed in between fits of violent, silent guffaws, and Alfred had to clutch his stomach and bend over to keep his voice from rising.

“How about-” Alfred attempted but took a few seconds to breathe it out before he could continue, “Remember when Dad watched- watched us play cricket with Matt and Gil?”

Peter replied with a nod, too scared to say anything in case he would explode. Watching Alfred trying to contain himself was hard enough in itself.

“ _‘Pick 'ee out the stingers-!’”_

Before Alfred could even finish, the boys curled themselves together as tears streamed from the crooks of their eyes. The covers rustled as Peter squirmed underneath it and Alfred kept pounding the mattress with his fist, and the wooden frame squealed underneath their concealed movements.

Eventually, the laughter calmed down, both lying on their backs with the covers up to their chins.

“Man, the old man,” Alfred sighed contentedly before a small worry wrinkle made its way to his forehead, “I wonder what’s up with him tonight.”

“He said-”

Peter stopped himself mid-sentence. Alfred expected a continuation but it never came. He ended up lying on his side so he could look at his brother, supporting his torso on his forearm.

“What’d he say?” asked Alfred quietly.

He almost felt bad for Peter upon seeing his hesitation, but eventually the younger boy came a few inches closer and lowered his voice so much it was barely audible.

“You know Daddy was a soldier and stuff…” he started as his eyes darted everywhere, but eventually he gave up the fight. “I’m scared to say more.”

Well, that certainly put things in a new perspective.

“He also said he wished he could have joined dinner today,” Peter concluded.

Alfred had his gaze attached to Peter for an uncomfortably long time until he finally lied down again. Uncomfortable with lying on his side however because Peter used his pillow, he rolled onto his back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘Course, he knew Dad had served in the military, which for sure must have had its consequences on his health in some way. Matt had told him all about an illness Alfred couldn’t remember the name of, which a lot of soldiers got after war. Often, they would feel guilty for their actions or relive some moments through vivid flashbacks. Then he had listed a handful of other symptoms. Alfred remembered it as sounding quite rough and knew from this that Dad was not sick, except being slightly detached at times. However, if Peter were right and Dad really did have episodes where the effects were extra heavy, wouldn’t that mean he went to some sort of psychological counseling? Which cost a fortune?

Either Dad was convinced that none of his stupid sons would notice, or he was playing a guessing game. Perhaps he already knew about Alfred’s university plans and strived to be the oh-so-virtuous father who never let himself show his weaknesses so his sons would believe he was strong and reliable. Did he not realize that in doing so it made him less reliable? It diffused the line that needed to be crossed to push him over the edge, and Alfred did _not_ want to take part of something that could lead to dangerous consequences. Neither did he want to walk on eggshells around his own father.

Alfred wasn’t going to stop Dad from playing whatever game of virtue he was holding up, but neither did he want to play a part of it. From now on Alfred would focus on himself and himself only, until he was no longer ashamed of how far he had come.

When he had made sure Peter was sound asleep, Alfred got out of bed and sat down by his desk again to study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Gert lush". British (Bristol) slang meaning that something is very nice.  
> \- "Pick 'ee out the stingers". Another Bristollian slag, associated with cricket.  
> Notes:  
> \- Gone with the Wind is an American movie from 1939 (so it doesn’t align with this story’s setting which is in the 1920’s, but I thought I’d add it anyway) based on the novel of the same title by Margaret Mitchell. Vivien Leigh is the actress that plays one of the two main characters.
> 
> Seeya next week, folks!


	12. Cayetano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Let’s roll!

The clock disrupted Alfred’s train of thought screaming that it was now seven o’clock. Though it should have woken him up, it did nothing more but slightly startle him and make him realize how much his back hurt. After all, he had watched as the night sky melt into a soft blue before showing the merest hints of pink, accompanied with Peter’s occasional mumbles from the bed behind him. Alfred hadn’t intended to set the alarm at this time, it must have been the habit he had worked up. How long was it until he was supposed to be at Elizabeta’s hair salon? Two hours? Which left Alfred one and a half hours to sleep, significantly less than he fancied but it had to suffice this time. With a groan, he closed the books and shoved them aside, and turned off the nightlight on his desk. After remembering to set the alarm again, this time to the right time, he went to bed and snuggled close enough to Peter that he wouldn’t fall off the edge. It was slightly strenuous, but they certainly made it work. And after what felt like less than a second, the alarm went off again and Alfred, even more tired than before he went to sleep an hour and a half ago, got up and ready for a new day.

The young workaholic whispered quick “goodbye”-s to Dad and Peter, slightly caught by surprise upon seeing that Arthur was still sleeping, before heading out the door. Then quickly heading inside again to leave his coat because the morning sun was significantly warmer today. He walked as he soaked the sunrays up like a sponge, eventually standing before the entrance to the hair salon, which was also the residence of Elizabeta and Lily. A jolly bell rang as Alfred opened the door, and in the midst of trimming someone’s hair Elizabeta grinned widely at him.

“Mornin’!” Alfred greeted and shoved the door closed behind him, the wallop echoing throughout the walls, “What’s the mission today, sir?”

“You see the shelf over there.” Elizabeta vaguely nodded toward the shelf stacked with hair products on the opposite side of the room from the entrance, “Move that next to the desk.”

“That’s gonna look ugly as hell,” Alfred snickered to which Elizabeta clicked her tongue and winked.

“Of course that’s not all. You don’t think I’m gonna let this salon stay ugly, do you?”

“Well, it kinda is already,” added the man whose hair was being trimmed. Alfred took a brief second to laugh along with him before interrupting himself as he caught the man’s green eyes in the mirror. After a blunt, yet highly intense, examination of the man’s face, Alfred broke into a wide and vivacious smile.

“Toni!” he exclaimed and approached the guy, being met with the solid handshake they had always had.

“Alfred, _hombre_ , I was wonderin’ how long it would take before you recognized me!” said Antonio with a smile just as lustrous as Alfred’s.

“You look so- so- what’s the word,” Alfred started before desperately gesturing with his hands in the search for what he was intending to say, “Y’know, opposite of someone who just sits inside all day?”

“Energetic?” Elizabeta suggested.

“Nah, that’s too vague,” Alfred rejected.

“Handsome?” Antonio tried.

“Nah.”

“Lively?”

“No- Or, well, _yes_ , but that’s not what I’m lo- _Fresh_!” Alfred finally blurted out, pounding his fist in his palm, “You look so fresh!”

“It’s been half a year, of course I look fresh!” Antonio said before Elizabeta yanked his head back in place and he whimpered, a tear forming in his eye, “With that mop on my head shorter I’ll be looking as fresh as ever, no?”

Antonio was a globetrotter. Found places to stay in exchange for work, and so he had made more acquaintances than Alfred could count on his fingers all over Europe. He proceeded to talk about what he had been doing for the last months. As the three talked about Antonio’s travels and jolly encounters with strangers in the Netherlands, Alfred forgot all about the pain in his back and shoulders, even as he worked his body almost to the max. In terms of speaking, moving the shelf and taking down all the hair products was a simple enough task. But _shoving_ the hefty shelf was another story. However, with Antonio and Elizabeta and himself rambling about topics ranging from the best pub in Amsterdam to Elizabeta being stupid enough to drink lake water, he did not mind one bit. Though not aware of it, he found it sad how time went by so quickly during moments of delight.

“So…” Antonio said and slowed down the high-energy conversation, “How are the twins?”

“You haven’t seen them yet?” Elizabeta asked surprised and brushed some stray hair strands from Antonio’s head.

“ _Tío,_ I just came in! I thought I’d surprise them after this since they like to sleep in,” Antonio replied with a cheerful shrug. Antonio was the one who had lived in the Vargas house before Feliciano and Romano arrived in Smalltown. Since these refuge towns were quickly running out of space due to the sheer abundance of people migrating to safer countries, he had taken the responsibility to let them live with him. When he had started traveling a few years ago, he left the house in the Vargas twins’ full ownership and care in exchange for being able to stay there rent-free whenever he returned. Along with Gilbert, Antonio was often labeled one of the “big brothers” in town simply because they had been so welcoming when Alfred and the other youngsters came to town as children.

“Their airplane is starting to get mad cool,” Alfred commented as he placed a thick layer of tissues underneath one corner of the shelf.

“Ah, man, I was scared they’d never get started on that project,” Antonio laughed, “I left when they were still in the planning stages and knowing them, I wouldn’t be surprised if they still hadn’t done anything!”

“I wonder why they are making it in the first place,” Elizabeta thought out loud. During the seconds they took to ponder, she cut big chunks of brown hair that fell gracefully to the floor.

“I have an idea, but that’s for them to say,” Antonio replied as he turned his head slightly side to side to observe his now exposed neck. Alfred had worked with the twins on this plane many times, asking the how’s, the when’s and the where’s, but never the ‘why’. Certainly, there had to be something important to them both that managed to keep them together despite their polar opposite personalities. Which meant that this glue had to do with the airplane, and frankly it piqued Alfred’s interest greatly. He didn’t know when the next time he’d work with them would be, but he made a mental note to ask whenever that was.

The bell rang as the entrance door opened, letting in a breeze of fresh and warm air. It was none other than one of the elderlies.

“How’s the hedge holding up?” asked Alfred as Mrs. Moore with her self-proclaimed youthful movements despite the walking stick, slowly made her way through the salon.

“Looking good today, ma’am!” Elizabeta chirped, handing Mrs. Moore the magazine she always read and seemingly forgot she had read every time she went for a haircut, “How would you like your hair?”

“Buzz cuts are popular with the seniors nowadays,” Antonio added, only to receive another yank of the head when Elizabeta suspected him of joking.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s jo-”

“Take it all,” Mrs. Moore said nonchalantly, “Listen to the Spaniard.”

Antonio smirked triumphantly at Elizabeta who did her best to not fuel his victory by not paying him attention and turned to Alfred instead.

“You take it, Alfred!”

On his feet in an instant, Alfred grabbed the shaver machine, attached the clipper guard, plugged the outlet, and turned it on. As he waited for the elderly lady to sit down, he listened to the juicy crackling in her hip bones.

“So, you just want me to take everything?” Alfred confirmed when she finally sat comfortably and wrapped the barber’s gown around her. She only gave him a determined nod before she was completely immersed in the home décor magazine, and Alfred put the buzzing blade to her hairline.

“Oh, by the way,” Antonio said and interrupted a brief silence, “I heard they’re cleaning up the lake now?”

“Yup, and I’m a part of it!” Alfred cheered and pumped a hand in the air, “Getting paid generously too!”

Antonio and Elizabeta chuckled. “You must have some great plan with all the money you’re saving,” Elizabeta commented.

“Hm, like financial security?” Alfred replied sarcastically with an ever so subtle undertone of apprehension in his voice, before sighing, “But you guys are right. But I’ll have to work _loooots_ more to get there.”

He now had Antonio and Elizabeta’s full attention, leaving Antonio’s hair looking choppy and funny as long as Elizabeta wasn’t moving her hand.

“So, what is this _great plan_ of yours?” Elizabeta asked and leaned onto one leg with arms crossed at her chest. The way the two were so attentive and open to hear Alfred’s dream of going to university made him wobble between the option of telling them and the option of not, as it would surely be a boost to his morale to have more supporters. But all this time, he had refused to let anyone but Matt know, and although he hadn’t come very far yet, he had been doing it for way too long to suddenly change the rules. Thinking about it, it probably wasn’t such a bad saying that goals were more likely to be achieved if one kept it to themselves. Alfred had for sure thought it was a terrible idea originally to follow this advice, but wasn’t that the exact thing he had been doing?

“I’m not telling _you_ guys,” Alfred smirked and brushed off the stray hair atop Mrs. Moore’s head, “But well… If I don’t find more jobs it’ll take really long to achieve.”

“You could ask Arturito for help, no?” Antonio suggested, to which Alfred quickly cut him off with a nonchalant chuckle.

Then it was Mrs. Moore’s turn to speak, whose face was no longer buried in the horoscope for March.

“We may or may not have some coins for you, Kirkland,” she said, making eye contact with Alfred in the mirror, “Since we are thinking of moving to the countryside, why don’t you help us clean out the residence?”

Alfred’s eyes lit up like two blue marbles in the sun.

“Oh, that’s true!” he exclaimed muffled, "I have time when I’m done here!”

His eager smile turned into a question mark when everybody chuckled.

“Young people, so ambitious,” Antonio sighed dramatically.

“Ah, the liveliness of youth,” Elizabeta added before continuing her hair work.

Now Alfred sort of understood what Peter meant by finding it frustrating that everyone was so much older than himself. Ten years surely didn’t sound too much, but that depended on where the age gap was. Ten years between a thirty- and a forty-year-old was nothing compared to ten years between a teenager and a 25-year-old.

“Then we will be waiting for you,” Mrs. Moore said satisfied before her focus returned to the magazine.

“There you go!” Antonio smiled before snorting sarcastically, “ _Cayetano_.”

  
“Oh, I’ll show you a _ka-yee-tan-oh_ ,” Alfred said playfully. Not that he would ever become a rich boy since all his money would be spent on tuition fees if he got accepted into Newcastle anyway, but putting some humor into it all made the situation even the slightest more bearable. Even if neither Antonio nor Elizabeta knew about Alfred’s “great plan”, the fact that they rooted for him to become a rich kid was enough for him. Which reminded him that he had to send an application letter soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Hombre ". Spanish. Literally translates to “man” and is used to express something like “dude”, “bro”, “man,”, “my man” etc.  
> \- “Tío “. Spanish. Literally translates to “uncle”, but is also a slang to casually refer to other people. Also “tía” can be used for girls (which lit. means “aunt”), but “tío” works for both genders.  
> \- "Cayetano ". Spanish. Negatively connotated slang for rich, often right-wing people. Like “rich kid”.  
> Seeya next week, folks!


	13. Old Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> News update: Yesterday I finished writing the story and I can now say that it will be 35 chapters long (plus a potential prologue)! I will also stop doing these top notes unless I have something urgent to say XD  
> Enjoy the chapter, folks!
> 
> Let’s roll!

It was a cozy place, the Moore couple’s house. Judging from the floor rug, the fine tea sets made from china, and the many plants in the window frame, they both had to be richer than most of the village. 

“You have such a nice house,” Alfred gasped lightly as he entered the living room which was brightly illuminated by the noon sun. The rug was incredibly soft on the soles of his feet and he couldn’t keep himself from digging his toes into it.

“You earn a lot from being in the military,” Mrs. Moore said before disappearing behind the corner and into the kitchen. Despite having done many jobs for them Alfred had never been inside their house and much like a dog visiting a new place, he walked around and observed every corner until his curiosity was as close to satisfied as possible. Auburn shelves and cupboards aligned the left wall, a couch and a desk the right, creating a joined living room and study. Like at home. There were also petite paintings on the walls in a style Alfred recognized at once.

“Did uncle Francis paint these?” he asked and approached a framed painting of the sunset seen from the train platform. Mrs. Moore didn’t reply which was fine by Alfred since he already knew the answer. Uncle Francis’ distinctiveness was the use of orange that he had in every painting. In some it needed only be a tiny spec that tied it all together, or it was the main color of the whole painting. Of course, Alfred hadn’t found that out by himself but had needed Matt to point it out for him, but now that he knew, it was easier to put into words what made uncle Francis’ paintings recognizable.

“Martha,” said Alfred clearly as he entered the kitchen, “What do you want me to do?”

“You can find cardboard boxes in the basement. Just put the things from the top and bottoms of the shelves and cupboards into them.”

“Aye, ma’am!”

With a salute, Alfred exited the kitchen and headed for the basement, which reminded him that soon it was season for lukewarm water. Now that the warm weather was ever so modestly approaching, the basements would no longer be cold enough for keeping the water crisp and cold. Meat and other game had to be consumed within a week of purchase, so buying an abundance on sale would be pointless since it couldn’t be stored at freezing temperatures any longer.

Alfred dumped three cardboard boxes big enough to fit a coffee table each onto the rug. He placed one of them in front of the first set of shelves and cupboards, grabbed the chair from the study, stepped onto it and started emptying the cupboard of its contents. For the most part they were books. Old books with pages turning yellow and emitting a wooden smell upon dusting. They all seemed to be medical books resembling Matt’s university books. Were they perhaps older editions? He wondered who of the Moore’s had had use for these books, and to such a high degree! Once Alfred had made five stacks of books, he hopped down from the chair and began placing them in the cardboard box. If he didn’t know better he’d probably be asked soon to carry these boxes to whichever means of transport that would help the couple move. Cardboard boxes filled to the rim with nothing but medical encyclopedias weren’t exactly considered easy on the body.

On top of the last books Alfred took some of the framed pictures aligned on the shelf. Since they could break easily, he had to make sure to cover them with something afterward, for example a last layer of lighter books, or perhaps a tablecloth. About to place an ivory-colored frame, through his somewhat blurry vision he noticed something strangely familiar. He brought the photograph a mere inch from his nose and squinted, and the reason for its prominence became clear. Although the quality of the photo was far from the best, there was no mistaking the bushy eyebrows. With the frame in hand, Alfred shuffled into the kitchen and approached the stovetop where Mrs. Moore conjured up a savory fragrance from a pot.

“Hey, Martha,” Alfred started as he lined up next to her, “Is that Dad in the photo?”

Mrs. Moore stirred a few rounds in the pot before finally looking at the picture, which took nothing more than a brief glance before she snickered.

“Is it the eyebrows?” she asked mockingly. Alfred chuckled because she was absolutely right.

“I’ll tell you that this was taken a minute before his eye got busted.”

Alfred interrupted his chuckle as he suddenly looked back at the picture and noticed that the eyepatch was not present. Framed by his noticeable eyebrows and short hair, way shorter than what it was nowadays, were two eyes looking at the camera rather cockily.

“Blow me down, he’s got two eyes!” he remarked quietly, bringing the picture up close again. During his years with Arthur, Alfred had never for a second stopped to think what his face would look like if he still had his left eye, since the nasty stitches were all he knew. The first time Arthur had shown him what was behind the eyepatch in a proper manner, Alfred had accepted it with a simple “Ew” and moved on. Now he was reminded that there had been a time Arthur had been able to see with both eyes, which had been robbed from him.

“I believe he was 18 at this point, which is now 28 years ago,” Mrs. Moore added as she put a small bundle of rosemary into the pot. Alfred’s eyes widened.

“He was carrying injured soldiers to the field hospital when the Russians showed up and started shooting at us,” Mrs. Moore said with an undertone of condescending laughter, “Arthur was unfortunate enough to not be shot right in the eye, but a piece of debris struck and pierced it.”

“And that happened right after the photo was taken?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

With a drawn-out hum, Alfred examined the photo once again. There was Dad whose expression resembled that of a protagonist in a high-paced action movie. There was another young man who Alfred could only presume was uncle Francis based on the disdain he had for the dirt on his face, and then there was a young nurse between them.

“Is that you?” Alfred mumbled without moving his gaze from the photo.

“Back when my sex appeal was more prevalent,” Mrs. Moore nonchalantly remarked to which Alfred cast her a surprised grin. The older lady covered the pot with a lid before she walked over to the dinner table and took a seat. Alfred followed her example.

“You know,” she started, and lit a cigarette, “Ellis used to be the leader of the squad which Arthur and Francis were enlisted in.” She dumped the ashes in a liberally used ashtray. The smell of the fumes awoke some memories within Alfred, but they were incredibly faint due to Dad not being a smoker anymore. All his mind could conjure was his bare feet on the cold basement floor as he cried because Dad and Peter were unable to unlock the door. In the next sequence, at some point after Alfred had been let out, an incredibly distressed Dad was smoking his second cigarette.

“So, your husband was a part of the military too, huh.”

“Everyone was!” Mrs. Moore answered and proceeded explaining, “As long as you had no physical disabilities and you were older than 13, the only way to avoid enlisting was taking the shortcut to Heaven. Which many did, but let me tell you one secret that’ll make even the toughest of times easier.”

Alfred leaned slightly forward, supporting his torso on his crossed forearms. Mrs. Moore raised her index finger and looked him straight in the eyes.

“If you’re an Arthur, find a Francis.”

With an expression resembling a gigantic question mark, Alfred sat back in the chair, his look floating around in the air. Surely, he understood the gist of it, but _man_ , did he hate metaphors. He knew Dad and uncle Francis had grown up together and been good friends ever since, but Alfred currently knew no one whom he had known all his life. That left him with one alternative left: Find someone to shamelessly satirize, argue with for no reason, and bear a grudge against. So far Alfred hadn’t met a person like that, potentially besides Matt whom he occasionally poked fun at… But compared to the verbal exchanges Dad and uncle Francis occasionally had, that was but a grain of sand in a desert. Alfred came to the conclusion that Mrs. Moore must have meant something other than these terribly depressing options, but that Alfred was simply too stupid, too unimaginative, to comprehend what. Until then, he’d have to trust her word that he would one day understand. Thinking upon this whole situation and the photo itself, a nagging thought appeared in his mind.

“What was Dad like when he was young?” Alfred asked. Mrs. Moore laughed jubilantly.

“I did tell him once that if he was into elderly women, I’d always be available,” she smirked mischievously, and Alfred let out a little puff of air. As if to laugh along. It was indeed funny, but suddenly he couldn’t find it in him to share the amusement. Mrs. Moore’s laugh calmed down as she tapped the cigarette over the ashtray.

“Contrary to popular belief, a cocky, little troublemaker who would have perfectly blended in with those American bastards,” she chuckled. Again, Alfred forced out some air.

“You’d think he was someone who you’d never want to rely on in a hundred years, which is absolutely correct, at least when it comes to emotional support. One of his girlfriends had broken up with him when she had confronted him about a miscarriage, because he replied with ‘You’ve got to be kid-in-me- Oh, wait, not anymore’.”

This time Alfred’s chuckle was genuine, followed by sucking air through his teeth in guilty enjoyment. He would never have guessed Dad had ever said such a thing.

“But that changed during the course of the war,” Mrs. Moore continued, “Whether for good or bad, there was no denying that he…” Her sentence trailed off as her gaze slowly wandered from the ashtray to Alfred’s face.

“Heavens to Betsy, he acted a lot like you!” she gasped before breaking into a snicker.

As much as Alfred wanted to immerse himself in the humorous possibilities of the past and imagine how it must be like to meet Dad as a cocky, young adult, the knot in his stomach tightened, holding the amusement back by a chain of guilt. With every fiber of his mind, he refused the intrusive thought he had had the other night to resurface, repeatedly enforcing the idea that he wouldn’t have his life any other way. Of course, he enjoyed working his arse off ten hours a day; Of course, he didn’t mind that Dad wasn’t helping him out, since he hadn’t suggested it yet in the first place; Of course, Alfred enjoyed working toward a goal so he could surprise everybody when he finally succeeded. Alfred could simply not wait until his workday was done so he could see Peter and Dad again and keep all his struggles to himself, and he absolutely did not wish that Dad was more like how Mrs. Moore had described him when he was younger. A dad who was secretive about his problems and whom Alfred first now knew struggled psychologically was _excellent_.

“Since you still have more work in town after you’re done, why don’t you eat dinner here?” Mrs. Moore asked, temporarily loosening the knot in Alfred’s body. The storm would have to wait, Alfred thought, doing his best to plaster his usual cheeriness back on his face.

“Are you one hundred percent sure that’s okay?” he asked, hoping for a yes.

“I insist,” said the elderly and got up from her chair. When she removed the lid from the pot, a bursting aroma spread throughout the kitchen. Meat, potatoes, carrots, rosemary… A stew. Not waiting for her husband to come home from his walk, Mrs. Moore initiated the dinner with a table prayer, and thus they kept talking about everything there was to talk about. Alfred soaked up the delight of the meal, charging up for the rest of the workday, as well as dragging out time. Maybe he would be late home today as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeya next week, folks!


	14. Masks

With dinner in his stomach and a smoldering headache, the work at Mrs. Moore’s house had gone by in a flash. The three cardboard boxes were filled with books, pictures and some tea sets. Alfred had left the residence with a sense of fulfillment and coins in his pockets, and now he was arriving at the lake site where people were working at their respective posts. There weren’t too many people at the polishing post today, or anywhere for that matter, so Alfred picked a spot underneath a tree and sat down. Having brought a handful of baking tray-sized aluminum pieces so he wouldn’t have to get up so often, he took the piece of metal in his hands and began scrubbing it with the steel wool.

The pink light that reflected off the discolored surface kept reminding Alfred that he was nearing the end of his workday, something he desperately tried to slow down. But it was like being stuck behind a slow walker; Eventually he would catch up. No matter if he scrubbed fast and unevenly or slowly and meticulously, the sun moved ever so slightly across the March sky, and time claustrophobia watched his movements over his shoulder. Alfred finished scrubbing the first aluminum plate, which he assumed had once sat proudly on the wing of an airplane, before he got up to take drastic measures to counter the flow of time. As he approached the little kitchen stand belonging to his respective part of the lake, a vibrantly gentle smile greeted him from the other side of the stovetops.

“Hello, Alfred!” Lily greeted as she stirred the ladle around in the casserole.

“How’s the kitchen work?” Alfred said accompanied with a condescending lift of an eyebrow. Lily only chuckled.

“It is nice, and the other ladies are very kind to me,” she smiled. Now, Alfred wasn’t the best at interpreting non-verbal communication but there was definitely a misalignment. The two spheres of her face showed different emotions, which Alfred noticed tended to happen when someone was lying. Oh, may the Lord have mercy on whoever was mean to Lily.

“Who do I have to hurt?” Alfred frowned jokingly and rubbed his hands together.

“Oh, no, they really are nice to me!” Lily laughed in protest and grabbed his hands across the stovetop.

“Then what’s wrong?” asked Alfred. Lily let go and proceeded to stir the contents of the pot.

“There is nothing wrong, Alfred, I promise,” she assured the older boy before grabbing a paper bowl, in which she ladled the steaming hot stew (how many stews had Alfred had these days, he wondered) and handed it over. With a dejected and disappointed pout, Alfred received the bowl. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but there was never a time he’d reject stew, not even if he had eaten the exact same type of stew just a few hours prior. After blowing vigorously on the spoonful, he savored the moment of eating comfort food on a chilly day.

“How is it?” Lily asked attentively, her big, green eyes trained onto every little detail on Alfred’s face that implied his opinion.

“ _Dee-licious_ ,” Alfred beamed with a thumbs up. He would have loved to gobble it down like his appetite usually urged him to, but instead he found himself taking moderate spoonfuls that he kept longer in his mouth before swallowing. Its warmth sure was soothing upon the aching in his head and body. If he could only stop time, just for a few minutes…

“Ya know, Lily,” he muttered after a few moments to himself to enjoy the sensation of his stomach heating up. He lowered the bowl slightly so he could get a full view of the girl’s face. Her gaze let go of the casserole and met his, and all of a sudden her presence became no more than the whimper of an injured kitten. 

“Ya gotta tell someone if there’s something ya want. If ya just sit back and take all the crap, nothing’s gonna change.”

Lily’s lips parted ever so detectably before quickly closing again. The words never came, and the conversation came to a still.

As he bathed in the delight of the food one of the kitchen ladies, one whom Alfred did not recognize, called for Lily and asked her to chop more carrots and potatoes. As usual, Lily obeyed without hesitation and grabbed some of the vegetables from the baskets behind her, placed them on the cutting board next to the stovetop, and started chopping. Alfred’s eyes followed the diligent movements of her petite hands as she cut the potatoes in half, then halved them twice more. Though the movements were much more forceful, the prudence bore a resemblance to Dad’s hands whenever he embroidered.

“You seem pretty comfy using a knife,” Alfred casually remarked before adding another spoonful in his mouth, “ _Yoh l’rned it from E’iza_?”

Lily kept the movements steady.

“...Yes.”

Alfred gulped the food down. Released a long, tired sigh.

“She sure is cool, huh…”

Don’t say that, Alfred told himself internally as he chowed down what was left in the bowl. Denying seconds when Lily offered, he let out a charming, little burp before placing the bowl on the counter.

“You work so hard, are you sure you don’t want more?” Lily made sure, ready to ladle him another round. Alfred waved his hand sheepishly.

“Nah, save it for the guys who come in for the evening!”

Eating dinner at home was definitely not in Alfred’s foreseeable future after already having eaten two dinners, so perhaps he’d be able to stretch out his working hours a little longer than usual. Thanking Lily for the food, he adjusted his suspenders and turned toward his post, before Lily called out to him with an uncertain “Before you go!”. She eyed him up and down.

“Are you okay?” she said steadfastly.

“Yeah, how come?”

“You just… Look so tired.”

Alfred cocked his head slightly to the side.

“I didn’t sleep well last night, but that’s about it!” he chortled, rubbing his nape. Lily looked at him in disbelief.

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

* * *

With the absence of sounds, Alfred eventually became aware of the sound of his breathing. In contrast to the tranquility of the house, it was rather rapid. Filling his body with oxygen from his abdomen to the top of his lungs and releasing it in a liberal sigh, the night hours filled his ears once again.

2:30 AM. Unsurprisingly his eyes felt as if they were thrown sand at, but he still had five pages left of the chapter about the cause of the bubonic plague. As much as he wanted to put his head on the desk, he forced his forearms to support his torso and keep his posture as upright as possible. “Catapult some wakefulness my way, Janibeg,” Alfred croaked as he wrote down ‘Crimea’ so lousily it could have been any other word. Although his droopy eyes were focused on the letters on the pages, his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Too many things had happened today for his sleep deprived mind. First of all, Antonio had come back – Which felt like a whole week ago due to the slowness of the day – Which in itself was worth celebrating. Then there was everything that happened afterward. Despite not being very fascinated or interested in philosophy and existentialism, there were times Alfred mentally stepped back and realized that the world had been running its course even before his birth and would continue doing so when he one day would no longer exist.

Tonight was one of those moments.

Dad had lived his own life way before he met Alfred and had a whole set of beliefs and experiences that made him perceive the world differently than him. There had been a time in the world when he took his first steps, there had been a time when he learned how to read, and there had been a time when he had got a letter from the government that he had to risk his life for the country. He used to act like Alfred, but had slowly morphed into the personality that Alfred knew today as Arthur Kirkland; Sensible, hot-headed and strict. A good family father. Arthur had once asked Alfred why he kept calling him Dad when Alfred most certainly had a biological father in his earlier childhood, to which Alfred simply replied, “I didn’t”. That was six years ago. At the top of his head, it was the only moment Alfred could remember in which he had seen Dad cry a little bit.

Man, how had Alfred ended up here in the first place? Or rather, _why_ had he ended up here? Why did a young boy from overseas and a man from the south of England both end up in Leeds at the same time, at the exact same street corner? And why did that man, who looked as demolished as the town they found themselves in while carrying a baby in his arms, reach his dirty hand toward the young boy and say, “Come with me”? Matt often talked about the theory of multiple coexisting universes, in which case there had to be one out there in which Alfred had been two seconds too late to that street corner, or one in which Arthur had been shot in his heart instead of in his eye. Perhaps there was even one in which there was never a war in the first place. But Alfred existed in this universe, in which all these chains of events had landed him on this very chair in this very street, with two university rejection letters hidden underneath his pillow. There was probably a parallel Alfred somewhere who had already enrolled in a university because he had asked Arthur to support him financially. Or perhaps the missing element for that equation to add up was to have another caretaker entirely.

Hah, could he even say such a thing…

Speaking of university; The application letter. In order for it to arrive on time, he would have to send it within a week. That meant that he would have to ask Matt for assistance like he had done the previous two times. But if he were to be accepted, he had to work diligently. Even if Newcastle was less prestigious, doing more than what was expected would certainly give off a good impression. Oh, yeah; He would write all the knowledge he had taught himself about history, politics and culture, and he would boast about the people skills he had honed through his countless, diverse workplaces. Perhaps one day he would be able to travel the world like Antonio and-

He definitely had to ask Antonio if he had time to sit down and chat about people, and dawdle in their shared philanthropy. One day Alfred might be traveling the world too and put all his knowledge into practice, and who knew what would become of him? The world would continue spinning as always even after his time had passed, and there was no way Alfred would pass the opportunity to leave a footprint in honor of himself and his sources of inspiration.

But first, he had to get accepted into the University of Newcastle. And in order to do that, he had to finish reading the chapter… And not fall asleep until at least 3 o’clock… What was the time now? Oh, the desk looked so soft...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeya next week, folks!


	15. Grow a backbone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone who celebrates it! Sadly no Christmas chapter XD
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter nonetheless XD

The next morning, Alfred was out the door in the blink of an eye. He had woken up much too early and been unable to sleep, so he decided to be early to work. The sky was already a light shade of blue when he stepped outside. Ignoring the aches in his back and shoulders, Alfred put on his service-smile and opened the door that led to the inn’s lobby.

“Mornin’, Big T! Let me grace you with my matinal presence and lend you a h-”

There was no brown-haired Lithuanian reading the newspapers today, Alfred quickly noticed. There was however a much bigger man sitting in one of the lobby’s unsightly, red couches, leisurely flipping through a tourist magazine. He looked up and met the blue eyes of the boy whose courteous, energetic grin was no more than a frowning squint.

“Good morning,” smiled the man.

“Good morning,” replied Alfred indifferently, “Have you seen Toris?”

The man nodded politely, his violet eyes gesturing toward the hallway. “He would probably be happy to see you.”

Alfred kept his gaze lingering on Mr. Braginski’s enigmatic smile as he approached the hallway, but let it go when the Russian returned to the magazine. From room number 3, Alfred heard a duvet being shuffled and assumed it had to be Toris. Lightly, he knocked on the door, and when it opened he was met with dilated pupils and speech going a hundred miles an hour.

“I must apologize for not being done yet, Mr. Braginski, would you be so kind and w-”

Toris eventually realized that it wasn’t the pale Russian towering over him, but a pale Alfred whose height was significantly less threatening. Toris’ shoulders slumped slightly as he released a sigh.

“You’re quite early today, aren’t you?”

“I thought I’d come in early which I now see was a good call.” Alfred stepped inside the room and closed the door slightly so only a stripe of light protruded. “Are you okay, Big T, or…?”

After a sharp inhale and a long exhale, Toris grabbed Alfred’s upper arms, and Alfred realized for the first time how much an 8-centimeter difference signified. Toris was _tiny_. His green eyes widened desperately, and the lack of oxygen sped up his speech again.

“As I mentioned before, I was unsure of when Mr. Braginski would be here, but I admit I forgot about it. But now he’s here and I am not prepared to negotiate with him at all, even if I know what I want.”

Braginski; One of the richest men in Europe. Alfred had no idea what his first name was, but his surname was well-known to the public. People would think that he owned huge companies in the cities, such as in London, Birmingham or Newcastle, but he seemed to earn massive bank from owning countless chains in popular, smaller towns and co-owning a portion of city-chains. The problem with Mr. Braginski was of course not his wealth on its own, but it was what he had the power to do with it: If people in a small village such as Smalltown let a profiteer like him own their businesses in exchange for higher pay, there was no doubt he would make Smalltown into a “Russiatown” and profit greatly from it. Not that Russian culture was inherently bad, but 1) Englishmen would rather die than let Russian politics (or American for that matter – despite the fact that they already used American politics –, but especially Russian) their turf, and 2) The inhabitants of Smalltown were proud of their puny town and how many countries were represented within such a small amount of people. Besides, Smalltown was so cramped and insignificant to the rest of England that they could only count on their fellow town-members to fight for their identity.

“... If I tell him ‘no’ then he might even cut the funds for the lake-cleaning, and all thirty people of Smalltown may shun me out-”

“Calm down, man,” Alfred eventually said in an attempt to reassure as he raised his hands. Toris’ blabbering came to an abrupt end and he took a step back. Not being used to being the one to reassure, Alfred scratched his neck and averted his eyes.

“I mean, you know what you want, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I want to be the sole owner of this inn.”

“Right, so that’s what you’ll tell him. No one’s gonna blame ya.”

“I’d feel like such a traitor, Alfred.”

“Feel whatever you want, doesn’t mean that you _are_ a traitor. Now, let’s work; I’ll handle the bedroom and you can do the breakfast, since you like that so much!”

Immediately, Alfred brushed past his employer and grabbed one end of the duvet to change its cover. Getting the room cleaned was a fairly simple task; Change the covers, vacuum the floor and the bed, take out the garbage. If the Russian wanted special treatment then he was very welcome to find another place to stay, because Alfred was not about treating such an overt guy like a VIP. He heard a little chuckle coming from Toris.

“Here I am being lectured by a teenager,” the older one muttered convinced before putting his hair up in a ponytail and made his way out of the room. Relieved, Alfred heard the door close. Whatever Toris was doing or not doing, he seemed to possess the power of contagious well-being, because changing bed covers had never before been this inspiring.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Alfred stood in the doorframe and took in the smell of clean bed covers and clean windows. Even though he’d much rather the Russian sleep in a room that was untended to, he gave himself a pat on the shoulder for being professional enough to not let his personal feelings get in the way of work. He dusted his hands and closed the door, and headed down the hallway to the breakfast hall. Braginski was harmlessly eating a breakfast consisting of various warm dishes, which was luxurious compared to what guests normally got at the inn. Toris was brewing coffee by the little stovetop that guests usually had to share, his hands trembling slightly as he brought a cup down from the cupboard.

The poor guy.

But before Alfred could even take a step toward him, let alone into the hall, to help, Braginski called for the feeble Lithuanian from the table. Toris froze for a second before turning around.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Braginski?”

Braginski gestured to Toris to come closer and Toris complied, doing his best not to spill the cup of coffee. Cautiously he placed it on the table in front of Braginski before straightening his back, making sure he stood neither too close nor too far away from the Russian.

“Do you want to get to the point or beat around the bush?” Braginski asked, a patient smile plastered across his face.

“That is up to you, Mr. Braginski, as long as you get to say what you-”

“Then accept a little gift.”

With risen eyebrows and parted lips, Toris, and even Alfred, stared at the bottle of Vodka that was held out toward him. 

“I think you might need this,” said Braginski with a faint chuckle. Toris eventually accepted the bottle with the most genuine smile he could force. He took a few seconds to place it on the counter before returning to the Russian’s side. Toris was rocking back and forth on his heels and toes. Braginski was simply looking at him without making a move. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife and Alfred wondered if he should step inside. But once again as he was about to intervene, Braginski beat him to it.

“Well, then, Toris,” he mumbled before pushing the chair back and standing up, his height significant enough to block the light of the ceiling lamp, casting a shadow across Toris’ uptight face, “Have you thought about the deal?”

Suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands, Toris began fiddling with them behind his back.

“I- I have, sir, and-”

“And-?”

“And I won’t-”

“You do not wish to let me annex your inn?” Braginski confirmed, his violet, idiosyncratic eyes drilling through Toris wall of defense. Toris parted his lips before quickly pursing them, and simply shook his head. Braginski nodded knowingly before he put a hand on Toris’ shoulder, and Alfred swore he’d soon have to interfere to catch him if he fainted.

“You have a part-time employee of sorts, yes?” Braginski asked, his voice calmly flowing through the deep register. Again, Toris nodded.

“Being such a selfless person, I assume you have asked him what he might think about this? I presume that threatening the defunding of the lake cleanup isn’t going to aid me much, but have you thought about how annexation may affect the young man who works under you?”

Defenseless the Lithuanian looked at his own shoes as if they were the most interesting invention of the century. With no more mercy than a businessman, Braginski bent slightly forward to resume eye-contact.

“If you let me annex this, I could turn Smalltown into a place more fitting for permanent residence, and I assume you know what that means? It would mean more government funds to your town, which again means a great raise in income. Just imagine what you could do with all that money, yes?”

Eventually realizing that Toris was too paralyzed to reply, Braginski left his side and headed toward the doorframe where Alfred stood.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you, American.”

Alfred moved not an inch.

“How much do you earn?” Braginski asked sympathetically.

“Not much.”

“Do you wish you earned more?”

“Who wouldn’t want to earn more?”

Braginski chuckled. “I do know of one person,” he muttered and cast a glance at Toris whose presence was no more significant than one of the cafeteria chairs. Upon looking at his crossed arms, averted eyes and hunched shoulders, Alfred could no longer bear to watch him this beaten down. 

“Hey, Big T,” Alfred spoke up as calmly as possible. Toris’ head snapped up and he looked at Alfred as if he were the light of the end of a tunnel. However…

“Man, you need to grow a backbone and fight for this inn,” the youngest of the three started, before sending an apologetic smile at the innkeeper, ”Because I won’t.”

As Alfred stuck his hands in his pockets and let his glance wander, he felt the surprised looks shoot his way and attach to him like glue. When he heard a delighted chortle from one of them, it was as if he could physically feel his chest being filled with cement. Dense, blistering cement. But as much as Alfred wished the best for Toris, the empathetic, kind Toris who had always wished him the best… Was it selfish to want that money?

* * *

Braginski had left the inn and tipped the workers for having prepared him a room even though he had never explicitly said he was going to stay, excusing himself with “It isn’t my fault Toris thought I’d be staying here”. It must have been the last droplet, because after that Toris simply clicked his tongue and left the breakfast hall. Alfred was now by himself, cleaning the table and storing away the food. Just because he disagreed with the future of this inn didn’t mean he would stop working hard and do more than what was asked of him. After a while of humming a tune from his childhood that he couldn’t pinpoint the origins of, he heard footsteps approach the doorframe. Alfred took a deep breath in and exhaled.

“About your next job, Alfred,” Toris tried, “I was hoping you could help paint the inn sometime soon?”

“Sure!” Alfred said, his glance still clinging to the table he was cleaning. For the next seconds, Alfred prayed that Toris would leave and quit standing there while watching him work, but eventually Toris broke the silence with a sigh.

“Look at me for a bit,” the Lithuanian placidly commanded.

Alfred’s look lingered on the tablecloth before he finally straightened up and turned toward the door frame. A pursed smile did its best to spite the tiredness of Toris’ eyes.

“I am surprised,” Toris said, his voice quivering ever so slightly, “But I am not going to adjust my dream to benefit yours, but I sincerely hope the dreams you are working toward will be fulfilled.”

With furrowed brows, he finally turned around again and disappeared from the door frame, and Alfred was left with an overwhelming stinging in his chest and in his eyes that he did not know how to channel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeya next week, folks! By then this *eventful* year will finally be coming to an end!


	16. The box of anticipation

"It's not lack of sleep!"

"If you slept better, then working wouldn't take such a toll on you."

"I've been working for six years, man, what's the difference?"

"Maybe that you sleep less nowadays?"

The disdain on Alfred's pale face was like an open book for Matt to read, which he did and released a heavy sigh.

"Why ask me if you don't want to listen," Matt mumbled as he got up from his desk and exited the bedroom, leaving the door open. Alfred didn't bother looking after him. Instead he remained lying on his side on the floor, his cheek in his palm. Though he had been reluctant to have a day off from everything called work, Lily managed to persuade him at the lake-site yesterday. He had revealed to her that he didn't have any work planned for today which she had taken as a chance to force him to let it stay that way. Alfred hadn't been able to withstand her surprisingly intense glare, and today found himself in Matt's room despite Peter's pleas for him to play Jenga with him. _It's big-brother stuff_ , Alfred had simply answered before leaping through the window.

Eventually Matt returned to the room and closed the door. In his hand was a long and narrow thingy, a cotton ball and a bottle of disinfectant, and soon he flopped down cross-legged in front of Alfred.

"Open up," Matt softly instructed. Alfred sighed dramatically.

"It's just been a rough past few days, you know? I suck at wording and that's why I came to you for help; Because if I'm stuck at home trying to figure out myself how to write this letter, I am going to realize the inevitable truth that we are all insignificant beings in this infinite universe."

Now with the slight device in his mouth, Alfred simply looked surprised at Matt.

"Tha'ss a nifty thing, _qu'esh-she que sh'est_?" he asked, trying his best to catch a proper look of its appearance.

" _C'est un 'thermomètre'_ ," Matt started as he unscrewed the cap from the bottle of alcohol, emptying some of its contents onto the cotton ball, "It's supposed to measure your temperature."

It must have been some fancy thing only medicine students and doctors had, because usually his temperature was measured by someone putting their hand or their forehead on his forehead. Why Matt had decided to go all fancy and lavish was beyond him, but at least Alfred knew he was being taken proper care of. After a long wait in a comfortable and uneventful silence, Matt proceeded to take out the thermometer. Alfred tried catching a glance of it but wasn't able to read what was written next to the red line. However, if it worked the same way as thermometers used to measure degrees in the air, they had to be numbers.

"Apparently you don't have a fever," Matt said. After cleaning the thermometer with the disinfected cotton ball, he quickly felt Alfred's forehead with the back of his hand. Alfred took the absence of reaction as a confirmation of the previous statement. Wrapping the thermometer in a tissue, Matt sat back in his chair and held up a piece of paper.

"Let's try and write that letter? I am leaving in a week, so if you want my help you have to do it now."

It took Alfred a few seconds of lying on his back, sighing and muttering something incoherent, before he finally complied. Preferably and ideally, Matt would write the entire letter for him. Perhaps the reason why Alfred had been rejected by the other universities was because he didn't possess the skill to make the words flow, and that his intervention in writing this letter was the downfall. But then again, failure was learning. At least that was what everybody said.

* * *

Two hours later a sealed and stamped envelope with an address lay on the floor, right in between the boys. Alfred stared at it. Matt stared at Alfred. Alfred stared at Matt. They both stared at the envelope.

"Take three?" Matt asked quietly.

"Take three."

Alfred lifted the envelope from the floor, its feather-lightness weighing a thousand pounds in his chest. This paper was a manifesto of his dreams and hard work. It was a vulnerable document. Unlike last time, this time Alfred felt a spark spread throughout his chest rather than a black hole consuming every drop of confidence he had. Unlike last time, if he were to be met by another "sorry" in the response… He shoved the thought away. The past had happened and the future was what he was manipulating in the present. The postal office was waiting.

"How did you feel when you applied?" Alfred asked once they were outside and heading eastward.

"I think I puked," Matt said, earning a surprised chuckle from the one walking beside him, "Right in the postal office, it was _so_ embarrassing, Christ."

Although Matt was timid and not very outspoken, Alfred had never seen him as a guy to overthink over things. He always looked like he knew what he was doing, like he had planned way ahead of time how to explain or demonstrate something. Just like an adult. They surely were the same age on paper, but truthfully speaking Alfred's brain would have to work overtime for years before he would be able to catch up.

"But you write like an ancient philosopher, what were you so worried about?" Alfred asked again. Matt snorted and shot Alfred a disbelieving side-eye.

"Just because I know how to write doesn't mean I think everything I write is good."

"But everyone else thinks it's good, so what's the problem?"

"Some people prefer to approve of their work themselves before listening to other people's opinions, you know."

Unable to counter the argument, Alfred let it slide with a prolonged hum.

The boys slithered in between two houses, the sound of crunching gravel bouncing back and forth between the walls. On the other side of the passageway stood the tiny, logo-less grocery store, with a sign upfront advertising the discount on vegetables that were in last season; Parsnips, brussel sprouts, rutabagas and carrots. Behind and slightly next to the sign was a red postal box. Alfred led the way.

"Man, why am I so nervous?" he laughed and lifted the flap covering the long and slim gap. Once the envelope that contained his innermost wish was on the other side of that gap, months of waiting lay ahead where Alfred could do nothing but spend time thinking about it. The anticipation was way more tormenting than the answer itself, especially the unexpected moment in May when a letter would be on his doorstep. Dropping this letter into the box was imposing emotions upon himself that he did not know how to handle, and that he couldn't share with anyone. Hopefully he would be lucky enough to drown them out with labor.

"You don't want to post it?" Matt asked after Alfred had taken his sweet time and not come farther than sticking the tip of the envelope underneath the flap.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Alfred said, returning from his thoughts. He pushed the envelope further in. When most of its weight was on the other side, he finally let go. However, the weight of the flap evened out the weight and kept it from falling.

"Bullshit." Frankly a bit offended for having his anticipation and anxieties disregarded in such a manner, Alfred forced the letter through the gap in a little fit of provocation.

Take three: Completed.

* * *

Due to a persistent headache Alfred had to decline Matt's invitation to treat him to sweets at the bakery, and now he found himself shuffling the last meters toward the house. With every step the ground wobbled a little more, with every breath his chest became more compressed. But he made it inside, kicked the door shut and stalely called, "Oi." From upstairs Dad replied in a likewise manner. Though the staircase seemed endless in Alfred's eyes, he made his way toward the sole strip of golden light emitting from the living room. Once there, the usual scenery of Dad embroidering in his chair and Peter playing by himself unfolded before his eyes.

"The workaholic is home," Dad greeted, sending Alfred a mocking smile. Alfred paid him no heed, walked straight to the kitchen and grabbed a slice of loaf. Although the time was 1 PM, his body felt as if it was 6.

"You don't want to wait for lunch?" asked Dad.

"Too hungry, but I'll still eat with you guys later."

As he chewed on the stale, unsatisfying piece of bread, he walked over to Peter.

"Whatcha' up to, li'l chap?"

Peter took another two of the Jenga-blocks and placed them across the ones that already laid there. He didn't even bother looking at his older brother before picking up another pair. Then another. Then another.

"Do ya have nothing better to do than to play Jenga for four hours, or?" Alfred tried again. Unexpectedly, Peter did not say a word nor bat an eye. Neither Dad commented anything.

"Hey, did I do something?" Alfred said, switching his glance between the two. Arthur simply shrugged with his eyebrows, Peter acted as if Alfred didn't exist. Admittedly Alfred felt heat building up in his chest, because at this point he had the feeling that they were in cahoots. Besides being absent from home due to working or spending time with Matt at the biblio to study, he couldn't think of anything that served as a reason for Peter (and possibly Dad) ignoring him. Here he was working his bottoms off only to come home to a passive-aggressive welcoming committee.

As if the pounding headache and nerves from posting the letter of application weren't enough.

"I'll go and nap," Alfred concluded under his breath.

"Lunch in 30," Dad reminded him from his leaning chair, but not bothering to meet his eyes. As Alfred exited the living room, he had a certain spark of hope that someone would stop him from leaving to ask what was on his mind. But eventually he headed to his bedroom to catch up on the sleep he had lost. Although he had now spent months working toward his dream, with that third letter in the mailbox, this was the first time he felt even the tiniest sense of productivity. Maybe, just maybe, there existed a place for him after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Qu'esh-she que sh'est (Qu'est-ce que est)?" French. "What is that?".  
> \- "C'est un 'thermomètre." French. "It is a thermometer".
> 
> Man, can't wait to get on with 2021, I have so many big stories I want to write!  
> Happy new year everybody, and seeya next week!


	17. The end of Peter's happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the first of two double-length chapters!  
> Enjoy!

Daddy had spoken less the last couple of days. Alfie had been out late working as well. If Peter was lucky enough to wake up before Alfie went to work, it felt like he hadn’t seen him in ages. And every time he saw him, he looked more tired than the last time. He hadn’t even bothered to poke his head through the living room door to say goodbye when he left to hang out with Matt, and now it felt like another year had passed since Peter had seen his annoying older brother. Daddy was slightly better because he didn’t go out too often, so Peter was for the most part guaranteed some sort of company. But he kept embroidering his days away without saying a word unless spoken to. It wasn’t that he was being cold or avoidant, he simply didn’t seem to take interest in anything but his embroidering.

And he embroidered every single day! Was he never going to grow tired of it? One thing was for sure; Peter missed some action in his life. He got up from the floor and walked over to the shelf where his prized toy plane sat.

“I’m going outside,” Peter said and took the plane in his hands.

“Alright, you go and have fun,” Daddy responded and sent him a mild smile. With that, Peter exited the room.

The main street was vacant this morning. Peter didn’t know what time it was, but people had probably gone to their workplace and so it looked like he had just stepped into a ghost town. Perhaps one day in the far future, that was what Smalltown would be. He lifted the hand in which he held the toy plane, took a deep breath, and started running along the houses as he released every airplane sound effect he could muster. Ranging from nasal “ _NYOOOM_ ”-s and bellowing “ _BRRRRRR_ ”s, he let the airplane fly past the dark windows on the main street, almost crash into the ground before picking up its altitude to create a dramatic effect, swirling above his head, taking a loop, and spinning as it nyoomed around a corner and-

“Woah!”

With a surprised whimper Peter stumbled a few feet backward before regaining his balance. He looked up at the two taller grown-ups in front of him.

“Sorry, little pilot!” Gilbert laughed, “Didn’t see you there!”

Peter only laughed. “It’s okay. I’m actually happy that I wasn’t as alone as I thought.”

The three listened in for a few seconds to let the silence settle in their ears, and surely it would be possible to hear if someone dropped a needle on the ground. The only thing giving away that people were still alive in the area was the smell of bread baking in the oven on the other side of town.

“Is Al at work again?” Antonio asked from next to Gilbert, bending down slightly in front of Peter.

“No, he’s with Matt again,” Peter mumbled dejected.

Even though Alfred had promised to hang out with him, _twice_ , he still chose Matt over his little brother whenever he could. What could be so important that Peter had to be completely forgotten? Besides, Matt probably had school things to do. Peter had heard that university was merciless when it came to free time, so the least Alfred could do was to not pester him, right? Was Peter really that undesirable to hang out with?

Before Peter could think another thought, faster than he could process, big and strong hands grabbed his hips and lifted him up and before he knew it, he sat on Gilbert’s wide shoulders.

“Ouch, ouch! _Meine Haare_!” the German cried whilst Antonio laughed, but Peter was still too surprised to let go of whatever he furiously held onto. Antonio gave him a gentle slap on the back which immediately halted Peter’s vigorous hair-grabbing, thus putting an end to Gilbert’s misery.

“I bet your plane hasn’t been this high up before,” Antonio grinned widely as he handed over the toy plane Peter had dropped when Gilbert had decided to take him by surprise. With the plane in hand again, Peter stretched his arm over his head, chuckling at the feeling of even colder air.

“Pick a side, Peter,” Gilbert said.

“American!”

Dejected, Antonio pouted. “Do I have to be Russian again?”

“Sorry, _amigo_ ,” Gilbert said indifferently, “Captain’s rules.”

It took Antonio a few seconds of scoffing and muttering to himself in his mother tongue, but after a while he grabbed the scarf that hung so loosely around Gilbert’s neck and wrapped it around himself, before assuming a menacing aura.

“Oh, silly, little _amerikanets_ ,” he said with a deepened voice, dragging out the syllables in the best Russian accent he had to offer, “I, the big, bad Ivan Antonski, shall rob you of all your moneys!” He took a few steps to approach Peter, Gilbert getting ready to run. And with a pointed finger and a commanding voice, Antonio started the game by yelling “After them!”, and instantly the three were off.

With one hand holding the toy plane and the other holding onto Gilbert’s head for dear life, Peter made sure that they were out of reach for the 'Russian'. However, at some point while Peter had been looking away, they got a little _too_ out of reach. Peter gently tapped Gilbert’s head.

“Gil, I don’t see Antonski anywhere,” the little one announced. Gilbert laughed and lowered the pace to walking speed.

“Good for us!”

“No, because I don’t know where he is!”

Lowering the speed even more, Gilbert looked around as well and everything was just like how it had been when they first encountered; Quiet. Given that they were playing among a cluster of houses, the walls would give off echoes wherever there was a source of sound. 

  
“This means either of two things,” Gilbert whispered, “Either the Russian has stopped moving, or he’s just _very_ light on his feet.”

“You have to be quiet,” Peter warned, to which Gilbert nodded determined. Once again he started walking, this time in a straight line as the Russian could impossibly be ahead of them given the layout of the houses. For every step Gilbert took Peter cringed at the slight crunch the gravel underneath his shoes emitted, the feeling of green eyes following them from a place close by crawling under his skin. Gilbert kept taking quiet steps until they were no longer in the middle of a crossroads, now hiding in a corner so they had as few places to scout as possible. However, even after being able to count to one hundred, there was not a single sign of the Russian.

“Ya think he left?” Gilbert suggested, Peter still keeping a vigilant eye in the direction he had the responsibility of scouting. He let the quiet listening serve as a response, and the two decided to wait a little longer.

“ _Privet_ , _rebyata_ ,” came a voice from somewhere.

“Antonski?” Gilbert carefully called out. His shoulders tensed up, and Peter felt his own heart speeding up in his chest as his little fingers lodged further into the silvery hair.

“If you don’t hand over your riches, big, bad Ivan shall do something very terrible to you!”

Peter and Gilbert met eyes for a second in confusion; How could the voice be so calm and quiet when it sounded so far away?

“We will never surrender to you!” Peter shouted, frantically looking around. The voice snorted.

“Oh, but you will.”

Suddenly they heard footsteps. Rapid footsteps, approaching them at an alarming rate, but from where? Gilbert moved away from the corner, holding onto Peter’s ankles for dear life. And when they finally realized where to look, it was too late: For a brief moment they saw the silhouette of a man soaring in the sky right above their heads.

“INCOMING!” cried Gilbert and got his feet moving as Peter repeatedly slapped his head, screaming at him to evacuate the coordinates. A thud just a few inches behind them rang through the walls as they accelerated for dear life, but Antonski was too close. At some point he briefly got a hold of Peter’s shirt, making the young boy scream but not remotely as high-pitched nor loudly as the German man who was 19 years older. However, Peter slapped his hand away with his airplane while still commanding Gilbert left and right until suddenly-

Peter’s ears caught an ever so quiet “ _Oh, Scheiße_ -” before the two of them were sent flying across the gravel, falling the total of their combined height. As they mumbled and grumbled in confusion, Antonski approached them and towered above them by Gilbert’s feet.

“Will you become one with Mother Russia?” he murmured, the cedar brown walls making his contrasting, vibrant eyes nearly glow. Slowly he took a step closer, and when he was standing over Gilbert’s waist, Peter’s eyes finally watered and sobs escaped his lips.

“ _Ay_ , _madre mía_ ,” Antonski, now reverted to Antonio, hurried before he stepped away from Gilbert to get to Peter, “I’m sorry, little guy, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Yeah, great job, _Antonio_ ,” Gilbert sarcastically spat as he got up and dusted his pants.

The two crouched next to a blubbering Peter repeatedly blaming each other for their atrocities; Gilbert accusing Antonio of being too menacing, and Antonio accusing Gilbert of being too careless in his step. However, in the midst of them arguing over the answer to a problem they hadn’t identified yet, Peter showed them the toy plane which now had a broken wing. Then he cried some more.

“Dammit, I thought you had a broken leg or something,” Gilbert exhaled in relief before taking the plane in his own hands and cracking a confident grin, “This is an easy-fix, little _Lotse_!”

“We’ll give it to Romanito and it’ll be fixed in no time!” Antonio reassured before helping the boy to his feet. After Peter had dusted himself and wiped his few tears, the older ones took his hands which he gladly grabbed in return. Hand in hand while belting it out to English folk songs, they strutted down the street toward the Vargas workshop.

* * *

“Oh, great, look who’s here,” came the unamused voice of Romano the second the door opened.

“How did you know it was us?” Antonio asked apologetically.

Romano peeked forth from behind the airplane, pointed to his ears with a disappointed look in his eyes. Antonio chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. The second Romano turned on his welder again, Peter approached him and reached out his critically damaged toy plane. It took him a while, however, because Romano was either ignoring or not acknowledging him and was engrossed in his welding. Once done, he slid his goggles to his forehead, put the welder away and crossed his arms. With a look that was everything but pleased, he cast a glance at the little plane.

“I’m not fixing another goddamned toy,” he huffed and was about to proceed with his activities when Peter tugged at the waist of his overalls.

“But-but they said I could ask you,” he pouted, gesturing toward Antonio and Gilbert who suddenly snapped out of their conversation. Romano took a deep breath in and out whilst glaring at them, and when he looked a bit milder, he squatted down and took the toy in his hands. It didn’t take him long to assess its state and eventually he sighed and got to his feet again.

“I could glue it back together but you’ll probably break it again,” he started while walking toward his working bench, “I’ll just use the pre-done bases and make you a new one. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Peter’s eyes lit up like lightbulbs and he laughed. Along with Antonio and Gilbert, he approached the Italian and went for a tight _squeeeeeze_ , in which Romano kept yelling the least catholic phrases in his vocabulary.

“I knew you had it in you, Roma,” Gilbert cooed before Romano finally broke free by kicking and punching. He adjusted his clothes and huffed, mumbling something about ‘damn Americans’ under his breath as he turned to his workspace. Peter could not unhear this.

“I’m not American!”

“No, but your brother is.”

“ _Oye_ ,” Antonio hurriedly encouraged as he stepped in between them, “Let’s not get political, okay?”

Both Peter and Romano looked at him with just a dash of hostility but decided to leave that debate be for another time. They would always argue about this either way whenever they met, so there was plenty of time left to conclude the dispute. Thus, Romano started assembling parts while Peter watched from a few meters away, Antonio grabbed a stool and put it against the wall before flopping onto it, while Gilbert was loitering around the workshop and touching stuff. Though, only Feliciano’s stuff.

“Where’s Feli?” he asked.

“Take a wild guess,” Romano replied.

“Sleeping?” Peter suggested.

Romano snapped his fingers in what Peter assumed was a confirmation. Looking at Romano working so meticulously on the miniature plane, with brows ever so slightly furrowed, relaxed shoulders and lightness in his fingers, he reminded Peter of the ones at home. Of Daddy when he sat in his chair and embroidered blue flowers onto white fabric, which he was doing much more nowadays, and of Alfie weeks ago while engrossed in his work. It was as if they could have done it in their sleep. They looked so in-control. Did Peter have any activities like that? He sure knew how to stack Jenga-blocks by now, but that didn’t count because he wouldn’t be able to impress anyone with Jenga-building. Perhaps putting up traps? Well, it was a fun activity but not as much nowadays. They just seemed to annoy Daddy and Alfie, so that didn’t count either.

“Damn, hold on.”

Everyone (except Romano) turned their heads to Gilbert who might as well have had a lightbulb above his head.

“All of us have brothers,” he whispered.

“You didn’t notice before now?” Romano mumbled.

“No, it _just_ dawned on me; I have Lud, Peter has Al, Roma has Feli and Toni doesn’t know where his is, but he has one.”

The following silence dawned upon them like the mist in a seaside town. Peter, however, did not like the silence and cut it short.

“Why are you guys so quiet?” he asked.

In that moment the door upstairs opened, and light footsteps skipped down the staircase accompanied with a lighthearted singing.

“ _Le ragazze de Monticelli,  
le sono belle dai piedi ai capelli_…”

Even Romano joined in with a humming so absentminded that he probably didn’t even know himself he was humming. Feliciano was carrying a tray of some pastry-looking things and put it onto one of the benches while he cheerfully kept mumbling the song lyrics.

“ _Ooo_ , taralli!” Gilbert said, immediately taking two.

“We didn’t have cheese, I’m sorry,” Feliciano said and raised his hands. He seemed as if he wanted to explain further, but laughed when he saw Peter, Gilbert and Antonio with their mouths stuffed already. He took one and walked over to Romano.

“Have one too, _fratello_!” he said in a sing-song voice holding it up to his lips, but Romano brushed his hand away.

“You have two eyes yet none of them can see that I’m working. I’m not eating before I finish.”

Romano’s spitting tone dug a little hole in Peter’s heart and he immediately hopped off his chair in protest and approached the Italians.

“Now I feel guilty for holding you back!” he pouted and joined Feliciano in giving him the puppy eyes. The absolute disgust in Romano’s eyes was immeasurable as he slightly squinted at them with pursed lips, his inner monologue written across his forehead. Feliciano put his arms around Peter’s shoulders and hugged him as their stare intensified with a slight whimper to go with it. Whoever lost this battle would definitely be reminded of it for the rest of the day, and at some point they had come too far to quit. For every second that passed Feliciano squeezed Peter tighter, and Romano looked as if he was about to burst. The persistent tug-of-war between _“Eat the taralli”_ and _“Hell, no”_ kept going way past the point of necessity, but in the end one of them finally looked away.

“I’ll eat afterward,” Romano concluded and returned to his work. Feliciano sighed in defeat, not letting go Peter.

“He’s just like Alfie,” Peter commented, his satisfaction peaking when he saw the slight jerk in Romano’s movements, “He should let himself relax a little bit.”

“I guess there’s nothing we can do,” Feliciano sighed dramatically before giving Peter a final squeeze. Deciding to not pester the oldest Italian any longer, the two joined the Spaniard and German who were chattering on the other side of the workshop.

“What are you talking about?” Feliciano chirpily asked as he slid into their conversation.

“Oh, you know,” Gilbert said, nonchalantly waving his hand, “Brother-stuff and how annoying they can be.”

Before anyone could add anything to the statement, Peter released a loud huff and crossed his arms. Wrinkles appeared by his nose and eyebrows. “Well, in that case, I bet I could write a whole book about my own,” he started. The others laughed while Peter’s frown deepened even further.

“He’s super selfish and only thinks about himself. Comes home super late and goes straight to bed and doesn’t even ask how I’m doing. And then, if I wake up before him, he leaves without saying anything,” the young boy pouted, his fingers now fiddling with the hem of his woolen sweater, “I hate him and he’s rubbish.”

The laughter around him had faded into light, relaxed chuckles. Antonio released a brief hum as he leaned back in his chair and rested his arm on the back of Gilbert’s.

“I think it’s safe to say that everyone will hate their brothers at some point in their lives, probably multiple times too.”

“Oh, man,” Gilbert chimed in, “Sometimes if Lud and I have to be somewhere at a certain time, he makes sure _both_ of us are totally prepared three hours before we leave, and God forbid if I want to do anything involving leaving the house during those three hours.”

Feliciano cast a glance at Peter.

“That sounds a lot like your papa-” he started but Gilbert immediately interrupted.

“No, you don’t understand,” he stated and leaned a bit forward toward the middle of their group, lowering his voice, “I am not exaggerating; If we have to be somewhere, or he alone, that’s all that happens that day.” After a brief, artistic pause, he leaned back in his chair again and chuckled. “But that’s how he’s built. He hates many of my features too! Even though he shouldn’t, that’s how brothers go; Either we have to give them time or just deal with it.”

As Peter’s look wandered from the crimson eyes to his own fingers at the hem of his sweater, his stomach felt as if a teeny, tiny black hole had just appeared. It also felt the same as when he was lying in bed and reading much too late in the evening, and then hearing Daddy on the other side putting his hand on the door handle. That brief, intense second when Peter knew he would have been caught reading too late hadn’t it been for the door that separated him from the hallway, was the feeling compressed into this little, black hole. And depending on what the circumstances were, it could be good or bad. In this case, Peter’s was bad.

“Then I hope he only needs time because I don’t want to deal with it,” he decided, to which the others nodded knowingly. 

A clank from the other side of the workshop concluded the conversation, followed by a stool being shoved.

“Hey, pipsqueak,” Romano called and held out a marine-blue and white toy plane the size of a small water bottle. Immediately Peter’s head had left the previous conversation as he zoomed to the Italian’s bench. With careful hands he took the plane, little stars twinkling in his blue eyes.

“This is even better than the other one!” he gasped, holding it up.

“You better not mean that my previous one, which you broke, was bad,” Romano muttered under his breath as he commenced the clean-up of his working space.

“ _Der_ _Lotse_ has upgraded and become even more awesome!” Gilbert blared from where he sat before he jabbed his index finger onto Antonio’s forehead, “So don’t even think about stealing our goods and riches, _Du schei_ _ß Kommi_.” Antonio frowned and smiled.

“I’ll have plenty of the chances to take your wealths,” he threatened in his Russian accent, and turned to look right at Peter, “Isn’t that right, little American?”

Giggling, Peter nodded determined as he held his plane above his head.

“You won’t get a single dime or penny!”

“Not a new plane either if you break this one,” Romano ever so snarkily added as he passed between them to get to a toolbox, casting the briefest of glances at the youngest of them all, who only laughed in response.

“I promise I won’t!” said Peter with a toothy grin stretching from ear to ear.

* * *

Seeing as lunchtime was approaching, Peter had decided to go home. He had been nyooming with his plane on the walk and excited himself over how its colors matched the sky. The thought of showing it to Daddy and Alfie made his feet light, so much so that his flight captain-spirit manifested as the skips in his steps. Having spent time with the others had smitten over to the rest of his outlook on the day, and perhaps when he came home Daddy and Alfie would be in the kitchen and making lunch! They’d be talking about things that only adults understood, sing to folk songs that Peter also knew the lyrics to, and then Alfred would accidentally cut himself on the cutting knife and cuss so loudly that Daddy would whack the back of his head with whatever vegetable he was preparing. And after that, as if nothing had happened, they’d continue the cooking until the aroma filled every corner of the living room and it was time to eat.

However, Peter was met with silence. No one had answered his call as he stepped through the door, and he found Daddy sleeping on the couch with his embroidering tools on his stomach.

“Hey, Daddy, look,” Peter said quietly enough to not wake him, since Daddy rarely ever slept deeply enough to not be woken by even the smallest of sounds, “Romano made a new plane for me.”

No one was there to admire the brilliant blue of this wonderful creation, which even if Peter wasn’t surprised, made the black hole in his tummy even blacker. So he retorted to Jenga. Even when Daddy awoke and made a pleasing remark about the new toy, the hole didn’t shrink the tiniest bit. Even when Alfie finally came home, it stayed the same size. By then, the black hole had been in his stomach for approximately an hour, and Peter was already sick of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- "Meine Haare." German. "My hair".  
> \- "Amigo.” Spanish. “Friend”.  
> \- "Amerikanets” Russian. A degrading term for “American”.  
> \- “Privet, rebyata.” Russian. “Hello, boys.”  
> \- “Oh, Scheiße-” German. “Oh, shit-”  
> \- “Ay, madre mía.” Spanish. The Spanish equivalent of the Italian “Mamma mia”, used to express a variety of emotions.  
> \- “Lotse.” German. “Pilot”.  
> \- “Du scheiß Kommi.” German, something like “You goddamn commie.”
> 
> Notes:  
> “Le Ragazze Di Monticelli” is a song by Narciso Parigi from 1963 (it doesn’t align with this story’s time placement, unfortunately. But I wanted to include it XD).
> 
> Seeya next week!


	18. Alfred, the reliable adult

The sound of wooden bricks clattering on the floor above woke Alfred from his short afternoon slumber, and once he sat up in his bed he realized how utterly full of shit the concept of sleep was; His headache had worsened and his limbs might as well have fallen off. An urge to scream into his pillow and strike the wall with a chair boiled up inside of him, but he left it be. He was an adult; He knew better than to let emotions get the best of him. He dragged himself out of bed and stepped onto the cold floorboards, feeling like one of those mornings when he had slept two hours in total except the minutes of sleep were not consecutive. When he arrived at the staircase, he’d much rather spend family time in the cold basement instead. However, conquering his emotional state, he made it up the endless stairs and now stood in the doorframe to the living room once again.

“Thanks for waking me,” he sarcastically said and looked at Peter who was _still_ playing Jenga on the floor. Did that kid have nothing better to do?

“You’re w-”

Peter cut off his own sentence and pursed his lips shut, turning his back. Despite the blistering annoyance, Alfred took a deep breath and decided to aid Dad instead. If that boy wanted to sulk and pout, then so be it. It was none of Alfred’s responsibility anyway. He approached the kitchen counter and grabbed one of the kitchen knives. He’d show them what he was capable of.

“I can handle lunch,” he said in an attempt to push Dad away with no success.

“Hello to you too,” Arthur said mildly provoked before he put down the knife he used to mince pork and turned to look his son in the eyes, “How are you feeling?”

“Just let me make lunch already,” Alfred reiterated, nearly glaring at Arthur until he handed over the knife with a sigh. Satisfied, at least as satisfied as he could be that day, Alfred continued the work that Dad had already started. From the looks of the store-bought pastry dough that was shaped into mugs, lunch today was probably small pork pies. Alfred knew how to make pork pies. He’d make the best pork pies they’d ever had in the Kirkland household. So quickly losing himself in his thoughts, he didn’t realize Dad was still standing beside him till a hand firmly pat him on the back and stayed there.

“Al, will you listen for just a wee second?”

His voice was quiet, but resonant; Just strong enough to reach Alfred’s ears. For the briefest second it seemed like he regretted having asked in the first place but something in him carried him to the goal of his intention anyway.

He looked so mild.

“I have no idea what you have been striving so hard for in the last weeks, although I truly wish I did, but…” Arthur started before he put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder and gave it the faintest squeeze, “I hope you understand that things aren’t like before anymore. There is nothing you need to hurry up for, so cut yourself some slack, all right? Whatever you’re striving to prove to the world has already been proven, and if you feel like it hasn’t, then I’ll try a bit harder.” 

With that, Dad gave a final pat on the shoulder before he turned around and headed for the couch. For a few seconds, Alfred stood immobile and stared at the minced pork on the cutting board. What in the world? Besides proving to them that Alfred was the best pork pie-maker in Smalltown, there was nothing he was trying to prove! And much less prove to the world. Perhaps Alfred tended to want to appear as a jovial and reliable guy, but wasn’t it common sense to care about the impression one gave off? Who was Dad to talk to Alfred as if he knew something Alfred himself didn’t, when he indeed had no idea what Alfred’s mind was up to? Alfred wasn’t trying to prove shit to the world, he was just doing what any decent human would. And what in the Majesty of the Queen’s name was _Arthur_ going to try harder for? ‘Then I’ll try a little harder’? Man, if Alfred hadn’t already been mentally tormented enough for one day, there was now this blazing venom in his chest that made him want to jam the cutting knife through the cutting board. However, Alfred was an adult maybe or maybe not going to university, and letting emotions get to the head was not something adults did. Therefore, he took a deep breath and did his best to focus on making pork pies worth dying for.

* * *

“I got a letter earlier today,” Arthur said after the little family had spent a good two minutes savoring the food. He took a sip of his water and looked at Alfred who sat on his left-hand side of the table.

“Jack and Wendy, although I think mostly Jack, had only good words to say about your encounter.”

The pseudo-swimmer, Alfred remembered.

Alfred’s ears pricked as he recalled the meeting which had to be around a month ago now. If he recalled correctly, Mrs. Moore had also briefly mentioned him when she talked about the old photograph of Dad about how Jack was enlisted in Australia of all places. Oh, yeah, Alfred remembered the man’s amusing accent.

“That’s cool,” Alfred responded rather nonchalantly, “How are they doing?”

While Arthur took his sweet time chewing, Alfred drank half of the water in his glass in one gulp. At first it hurt since it wouldn’t go down all at once, but once his muscles got to work, it was like a breath of fresh air through his passage. Like entering a cold shower after a sweaty day of work. It was for a mere second that his pains left his body and the fog in his head cleared out. Arthur meekly cleared his throat before talking.

“They’re currently in Newcastle and it seems like they don’t want to leave anytime soon.”

He chortled and glanced at Peter, who had moved his chair so as to not sit directly opposite of Alfred, “It wouldn’t be too hard taking a day trip so you could meet someone your age.”

Like the first sun rays over the horizon, Peter’s blue eyes lit up and dragged the corners of his mouth along.

“Can we really do that?” he beamed having long forgotten the cutlery he had dropped onto his food. Arthur responded with a relaxed and optimistic nod to which Peter rejoiced, questions about when cascading from his mouth. In the meantime, Alfred internally released a sigh of relief. With an inaudible snort, he wondered if perhaps the whole concept of sowing pansies while wishing for something wasn’t too bad an idea. After all, he did wish for someone younger to move into town so Peter would have a playmate. Even if Newcastle was a bit farther away than he had hoped, Alfred had nothing to complain over if this was as close as he could get. And besides, a trip to Newcastle soon sounded like an opportunity too good to let go of.

“Can’t believe you’re the only kid in this town,” Alfred sighed before taking a bite of his pie, “ _Mush’t be lonely ash hell_.”

For a second Peter opened his mouth to reply before zipping them shut again and moving his chair even further to the edge of the table. However, instead of putting on the pouty-mouth and crossing his arms, he picked up his fork and repetitively tapped his plate with it. Knowing he earned gazes at this, he kept glancing at them both, his ears reddening a little, before he put the fork down and fiddled with the tablecloth.

“You promised,” he mumbled, his eyes occasionally meeting Alfred’s through his blonde forelock, “Twice.”

How fantastic, now Alfred had to shoulder the blame for something he wasn’t even aware of. Promised what? The little twat first refused to speak to him which wouldn't have been such a problem hadn’t it been for Alfred’s pounding headache, and now he sat there with the mopiest face he could put on and blamed Alfred for it?

Also Dad’s eye was on Alfred now. He sighed and his voice sounded as if this was to be expected.

“Al, what did you do?”

“No idea,” Alfred said indifferently and raised his hands slightly. As scheduled, Peter’s eyes turned blank as the wrinkles between his eyebrows grew deeper. He put both palms on the table, lifting himself slightly.

“You know it!” he accused as his light voice cracked, “You promised you’d hang out with me ‘next weekend!’, and when you forgot you promised me and forgot again!”

_Shit_.

Now Alfred too held onto the edge of the table, his heart ever so slightly knocking on his ribcage.

“I have work to do, alright?” he said, “You’re only eight, so you don’t understand.”

“If making promises you can’t hold also is a part of that, then I don’t want to understand!” Peter fired back, to which Alfred sharply inhaled and swore to Jesus Christ and God Almighty that he wouldn’t grab the boy by his collar. Blue eyes met blue eyes with a spark that could have lit the candle on the table, but eventually Alfred loudly exhaled with his knuckles to his lips. Alfred let Peter stare anticipatingly at him before forcefully putting his palms on the table and made the most insincere smile he could manage.

“Sorry, then!” he said before he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, taking a sip of water. The redness of Peter’s ears spread to the rest of his face before he as well sat back, his fingers finding their way back to the tablecloth.

“What’s up with you two, huh?” Dad asked, seemingly more to himself than to the boys he was talking about. In any case, it was safe to say that Alfred hadn’t the slightest clue of what he had done wrong and therefore could conclude that this farce was none of his business.

* * *

_A ship full of black pillows. Someone had thrown him into a dark room with no windows, and how he knew he was on a ship was beyond him. Perhaps it was the swaying that made his stomach feel like a turning hourglass filled with liquid; Perhaps it was the taste of salt on the tip of his tongue. His little body was sprawled across some black pillows. A disembodied voice told him to feed himself with whatever would please him from the black pillows. So he opened up the one next to him and ate some of the newspaper pages inside. There was a picture of an eye with no head on one of them, and it tasted as such too. His rumbling tummy commanded him to look inside another pillow and he indifferently complied. The Statue of Liberty was in another pillow, so he ate her too. What other choices did he have?_

_The next second he stood by the lake site, again filled with black pillows. But what were these pillows doing here? They weren’t supposed to be in this place! A horde of people carried the pillows on their backs as Elizabeta, whose clothes looked like his own, ordered them to be dumped in the lake. Wait- No! They would pollute the lake even more than it already was and it would cause even worse crops for all the farmers! And Smalltown would stink even more! He screamed at them, but he could only utter the word “hands” over and over._

_Hands! Hands! Hands!_

_In front of his feet was a hand. Nails chipped and skin dirty, its widest width the length of a bouncy ball._

_Hands!_

_Why did the people not understand that those black pillows belonged on the surface? He ran to them, but his feet refused to carry him farther than half a meter at a time._

_“Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?”_

_“Nouveau château.”_

_But Matt did not listen._ _He turned his back. In fact, all the others turned their backs. In unison they jumped into the lake and disappeared, except for one. In the middle of the lake stood a boy with dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, wearing suspenders and a tucked shirt with sleeves folded. He opened his mouth._

And Alfred’s eyes sprung open. He recognized the feeling of a book page against his forehead.

When had he fallen asleep?

The light from the desk lamp pierced his eyes when he straightened up, and the letters on the page were as indistinguishable as ever.

4:30 AM.

He could spare 30 more minutes to finish this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, seeya next week!


	19. American perseverance

That feeling when one was having a cold and the nose would be stuffed, the sick would long for the days he could breathe without having to open his mouth. If said person were sick long enough, he would become so accustomed to the stuffiness that he’d forget how life was like before he got sick. Likewise, Alfred wondered how it was like to wake up and not have his head feel like someone had rammed a hammer into it. As he sat on the edge of the bed in the drowsiness of early morning, he massaged his temples with his peace-fingers, starting lightly and increasing the pressure until he realized he was adding to the pain. With a sharp inhale he withdrew his hands and squinted until the pressure had weakened. After a minute of staring into the wall, he sighed and pushed himself up from the mattress, the frame and floor creaking under him. “May the Lord make us truly grateful,” he whispered with every step he took until there was no way for him to return to bed. With three days until the lake cleanup was to finish, today marked the start of three days with extra intense labor, and Alfred’s body wept in joy.

The time was 7 AM when Alfred clocked in by the lake, and the first sight he was met with was the eternal smile plastered on the face of a German girl working behind the food stand. With green eyes giving off yellow sparks in the sunrise, Lily tilted her head to the side and waved slightly with her petite hand.

“Good morning, Alfred!” she chirped calmly after having put the various kitchen utensils onto the bench. Alfred couldn’t help but release a faint smile before walking over to her, leaning onto the bench with his elbow.

“Mornin’, Lily.”

Lily picked up a cardboard box half as tall as her and pushed it onto the bench.

“What’s that?” Alfred asked, moving slightly so the box wouldn’t have to stick out over one edge of the counter.

“Vegetables,” Lily replied and quickly grabbed a carrot, “Do you want one?”

Waving nonchalantly, Alfred looked away and at the heap of collected materials that had been polished and cleaned, which was but a blurry blob in his vision. If that was usable then Smalltown would definitely gain some kind of profit, not to mention that this was only one of six posts by the lake. That meant that there had to be six other piles of collected material, and that there was a chance that Smalltown wouldn’t have to stink _as_ much in the near future. However, he couldn’t see the other posts of the lake; Too blurred out. He could only hope.

  
“Ya think this whole cleanup is gonna be worth it?” he asked thoughtfully, not really awaiting a response but still reluctantly tearing his gaze from its current point of attachment to look at Lily when she didn’t say anything. Instead, her intense eyes stared at his face as if he had grown a unicorn horn. Gradually, her eyebrows slanted and the corners of her mouth dipped. Like a mother measuring the temperature of her sickly son.

“Have you still not gotten a good night’s sleep?” she asked.

“What, are you also going to say I look tired?” Alfred responded slightly irritated and averted his eyes. After taking a deep breath, he straightened up and puffed out his chest slightly, forcing the corners of his mouth as far from each other as possible.

“Nothing can tire this guy out, and I’ve never been better!” he assured Lily, about to turn and get to work when an alarmingly tall figure blocked his path. Immediately Alfred took two steps back.

“Good morning, you two!” Braginski said with a smile, to which Lily gave a slight nod and a greeting back. Alfred, however, felt a knot growing in his stomach just by acknowledging his presence.

“How nice to see that all of you are working so hard for your town,” the Russian said delighted as he cast a quick glance around, “It is with a heavy heart I leave in two days.”

Alfred shot him a dirty look.

“Thought you said we had three days left?”

“Ah, I did!” Braginski replied and put a hand on Alfred’s sturdy shoulder, “But Toris decided not to let me annex the inn, so I have no more business here. I ordered the means of shipment to come tomorrow night. You should all be grateful that I’m willing to stay here until tomorrow night for you, _hmmm_?”

If Alfred’s heart was a teacup, then someone had dropped it onto a rugged floor: It didn’t shatter.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Braginski, we are very grateful,” Lily said before getting back to work. In the meantime, Alfred’s thoughts were in a bit of a chaos, but he wasn’t sure exactly of _how_. He didn’t even know what thoughts were in his head in the first place, but he knew that whatever he was feeling gave him the urge to crawl back in bed and become a hermit for two months. Braginski removed his hand from Alfred’s shoulder.

“How thoughtless of your employer to deny you the income you have the right to have,” he said, “But he has his reasons. Not that I would let that slide if I were in your shoes.”

“I’m not like you, _commie_ ,” Alfred snapped and took a step away. Braginski chuckled.

“Because you’re lucky enough to have such wonderful people around you,” he said before relaxing his hands behind his back in a way only people in their forties and fifties were able to.

“I’m smart enough to see that nobody would want to be friends with me hadn’t it been for my riches. If I were just another Russian… Well, I think you know how Russians are treated here in western Europe, hm? On the other hand, you have all these people around you who looked beyond your American background, but that is the only place in which we differ, _amerikos_.” Braginski’s violet eyes drilled into Alfred’s blue ones, sucking the light out of them till there was no more sunrise left. 

“Without them you’d be as worthless as me.”

Seconds that felt far too long to be only two passed by before the violet glow disappeared from Alfred’s field of sight. Only the lake and Braginski’s broad back was in front of him now.

“Well, then, good luck with work!” he waved as he walked away.

The pounding in Alfred’s head had become more of a high-pitched hum drowning out the sounds he had previously perceived as Lily moving cardboard boxes, sharpening knives and the occasional labor-singing from the other side of the lake. The hum became a rhythmic hammer hitting the inside of his skull.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

Or perhaps the reason why he couldn’t hear Lily anymore was because she caught him when he lost his balance for a few seconds. Man, he couldn’t hear anything except for that high-pitched whir in his head and eventually, his brain decided to temporarily shut down.

* * *

A slight pressure on the shoulders. The sensation of his ear canals popping. Gentle mumbling, and as soon as he parted his lips, it ceased.

“Al?” came a gentle voice. When Alfred’s eyes opened and his vision became slightly clearer, he recognized the eyes behind a pair of rounded glasses.

“Matt?” Alfred attempted to say, but all that came out was a groan. Then he noticed that he wasn’t the only one there; Lily sat next to Matt, hands folded on her knees. They were in Matt's bedroom.

“What am I doing here?” Alfred asked in a mumble as he slowly sat up with the help of Matt. After having put a pillow between the wall and Alfred’s back, Matt sat back and adjusted his glasses with a sigh.

“I was heading to the post office when I met Lily who was carrying you,” he explained. When he got to his feet and muttered he’d get the thermometer, Lily leaned a little closer.

“Since Mathieu is a medicine student, I thought it would be better to ask him for help than to bring you to Arthur,” she added, the worry-wrinkles deepening between her eyebrows. For a moment, Alfred felt a relief he didn’t even know he longed for, but the circumstances quickly brought him back to reality. He looked prolongedly at the girl next to him, whom he first now noticed had grown her hair so long that it was in tiny braids.

“You carried me all the way here?” he asked, his voice low.

“On my back,” Lily said with a sheepish chortle, “I had to beg for permission to leave, so I have to go back soon.”

This girl, two years younger than him and almost forty centimeters shorter, whom he had only seen do cooking and gardening, had carried his body the ten minutes or more it took to walk from the lake. Alfred clapped his hands together.

“All right, in that case there’s no time to lose, let’s go-!” he said about to get back on his feet, but Lily put her hands on his shoulders with a stronger grip than he had expected. Taken aback, Alfred complied and sat back down.

“You must rest,” Lily said, almost with enough diaphragm that it could have been a command, “I will handle your workload for today and tomorrow since we are too many in the kitchen anyway.”

“Wait, wait, wait, what?” Alfred said and let out a little chuckle, “You can’t handle that, Lily, you’ll hurt yours-”

“I already got the approval from the director.”

As his heartbeat sped up a few notches Alfred sat up straighter, no longer leaning against the wall.

“That’s too much work for you!” he protested, “I know you wanna be like Eliza and stuff, but if you work yourself too hard, you’re going to end up hurting yourself.”

A brief flash of hurt spread across Lily’s face at the remark, and Alfred’s heart mirrored it. Lily’s smile was no more than a mere straight line on her face.

“I won’t because unlike you, I know my limits.”

The two looked at each other for a few seconds, staring each other down like they had never done before, and when Lily decided to get to her feet Alfred grabbed her wrist. She kneeled again, not bothering to turn around to meet his face.

“You’re bringing me back with you,” Alfred said so provoked that it was almost a hiss, “Thanks for carrying me here, but I _have_ to work and you could _never_ handle everything e-”

Before Alfred could finish his sentence, Lily sharply withdrew her hand and got to her feet. When she looked down at him, she revealed reddened cheeks and slightly puffy eyes, and Alfred’s body tensed up. Once, Lily sniffed as she tightened her fists.

“Please, stop treating me like glass.”

With that, she left, leaving the bedroom door open. Alfred heard her light steps echoing in the hallway, then a brief stop as she paid her thanks to Matt, before the outer door opened and closed. Then the bedroom door closed as Matt entered the room again with the thermometer in his hand.

“What did you tell her?” Matt asked in an accusing tone as he rinsed the thermometer with disinfectant. Alfred remained silent as he stared at the door, his mouth automatically opening when Matt reached the device toward him.

“Also, you look worse than last time you were here.”

When the temperature measuring was complete and Alfred’s fever considered non-existent, Alfred finally let himself exit his disorganized thoughts and return to his immediate surroundings. Judging from the mild and slightly concerned look on Matt’s face, Alfred decided to cut off the question he knew was coming, so he got to his feet and headed toward the bedroom door.

“Biblio,” Alfred stated and opened, turning his back to Matt as he stepped into the hallway, “I need to read.”

How criminally much did Alfred want the floor to collapse under him and have the world swallow him into an endless void… The mere fact that someone, and that someone being a frail girl, had witnessed him collapsing from something that definitely was not overwork, as everyone stated. Alfred wasn’t like the other miserable Americans out there who weren’t working hard enough to put a stop to their lives on the streets; While they were by the dumpsters in London and Liverpool lazing around and eating mold, Alfred pushed through the pain even if it felt like his feet were wading in syrup.

Alfred wasn’t like them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- “Amerikos.” Russian, slightly degrading slang word for an American person
> 
> A/N: Sorry for not posting yesterday, my ass thought my posting schedule was every Saturday for some reason, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter nonetheless! Seeya next week!


	20. Once upon a time in Leeds

The rumbling stomach was Alfred’s cue to return home, and in the evening, 18 hours after having left for work earlier that morning, he finally stood outside the door leading home. With a hand as heavy as lead, he lifted it before dropping it onto the door handle, turned and opened it, and he stumbled inside. Not possessing the strength to soften the impact, the door slammed shut, the pictures on the walls shimmying slightly. Alfred could ever so faintly pick up the sound of Dad and Peter’s voices, but they sounded as if they were a mile away. Hadn’t it been for the dryness of his throat he would probably have responded to what they said. As he looked at the floor for dear life in case his legs decided to give in, the area around his eyes heated up slightly and blurred his vision, and when he looked at his hands, he wondered if they were his at all. They certainly did not feel that way.

“Alfie?” came Peter’s voice, now sounding closer, from the mezzanine floor, “Are you coming?”

Biting his teeth together, Alfred cast a brief glance at him accompanied with a faint smile, and nodded. Peter giggled and disappeared into the living room and kitchen and Alfred approached the stairs. He laid his eyes upon it, cursing his eyes for stinging so much by its mere sight.

* * *

“Long day at work?” Dad asked when the little family had finished the table prayer and started eating.

“Yeah,” Alfred replied feebly, promising to use his stomach more next time he decided to speak. The chance never came, however. Instead, Peter sucked all the oxygen from the conversation by ranting about something Alfred hadn’t caught. Like a dream, dinner was over in a flash and Alfred now found himself in the silence of his own bedroom. The thumping from above due to Dad and Peter cleaning upstairs matched the rhythm of his heart pulsating through his skull, but he wouldn’t let it interfere with his work. He would absolutely finish reading the chapter about Joan of Arc that he had started at Matt’s earlier that day before even thinking about moving from his desk to his bed.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Joan was kept in John of Luxembourg’s castle in Vermandois, a French county. Her desire to escape led her to jump from the tower.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Taken to Arras when recovered from mild injuries.

_Thump. Thump._

Something about the University of Paris.

_Thump-thump._

Bloody hell, was it even possible to be such a weakling? To hell with his eyes, his pounding head and the excruciating pain in his undependable lower back. To hell with it all.

* * *

_‘Thump, thump, thump,’ said the rain, rippling through the thin layer of water on the poorly bricked sidewalk. He had ransacked the last garbage bag in the street corner, the last piece of loaf having entered his stomach right before he fell asleep. He hadn’t been asleep for long, however, since it was just his afternoon nap. Some men in top hats with ugly women by their sides had splashed the crummy water in his face, dragging his mind from his happy place to the grey streets of England as they called him “bloody American”. With the little humanity they had left in them they had tossed him a piece of an old newspaper which he had gladly accepted and swallowed. It had of course not satisfied his hunger, but it was a good place to start. Ultimately, he had decided to find more garbage bags down the street, and his little, bare feet were now wading through the brown water._

_He hadn’t seen a single speck of blue sky for around four days and he was beginning to yearn for waking up with sun on his face instead of raindrops. Garbage bags weren’t exactly useful for keeping warmth he had found out. What he_ had _found out, however, was that they served as excellent rain ponchos or capes if the rain came pouring down hard enough. Sometimes he’d be able to blend in with the crowd as well if he wore them, but only if a playground was nearby. Otherwise, everyone knew that children who weren’t followed by their parents were either parentless because they had died in war, or worse: Children of the enemies. On a good day, once in a blue moon, his dirty and rough appearance blended in perfectly with the children who were playing in the streets._

_The cold water washed over his blistered toes, entering all the wounds and numbing out the probably numerous infections even more. Just a few weeks ago he had barely been able to stand; It was amazing how well dirt worked as painkillers! He would definitely be found dead in one of these street corners one beautiful day in the near future, and therefore he had seen no reason as to not work with what he had in his nearest resources. Maybe then he’d be able to play with the kids on the playground again; With big brother Davie and Momma, if they were there._

_His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he lost his footing for a second. Another pile of dog shit. Stepping away, he wiped his foot on the bricks underneath his feet before wiggling his toes in the water. Surely dog poop served as a decent (but nonetheless distasteful) alternative when he hadn’t eaten in days and there was no food in sight, but there was something about its soggy, grainy and once-warm-but-now-cooled-down texture on his skin that made him want to scream. Vomit. Be swallowed into the Earth’s crust and disappear forever._

_To hell with dog poop._

_Something glimmered in the corner of his eye. A bob? He approached it. He knew better than to just go up and take it, but he hadn’t seen a single coin on the ground ever since he was in Manchester! He sharply sucked in some air, may whatever happens happen, and crouched down. But upon closer, much closer, inspection, he could ever so faintly spot the fine, black thread around its periphery._

_Man, so much for a shilling._

_However, he took a leap of faith and refused to let it stop there. He grabbed the coin as forcefully as possible and bit off the thread, immediately making a break for it as he heard the pranksters yell from the other side of the street. He scuttled as athletically as his legs would allow him. The adrenaline rush put a smile on his face for a brief minute before the older boys caught up to him, resulting in him being thrown down a manhole cover and splatting into whatever existed down there. He didn’t really want to find out. But if it was what he thought, it would be excellent for his infections._

_Well, there went that chance of earning some cash._

_He got to his feet and grunted his way up the slippery steel ladder. Fortunately, the boys had it in them to be lazy enough not to put the cover back on, and frankly, so did he. Once he was out of the sewer all fresh and dressed in_ earthly _colors, he made his way to the next dead-end alley. To his dismay there were no garbage bags nor cans of which to help himself, but there were two seemingly dead women lying by the wall farthest back. With slow steps, he approached them until he was close enough to sit down and lean his back onto them. He could see from their facial structures that they were of Russian origin. Because of this, he moved away from them and leaned against the wall instead. Actually, he found it more tempting to find another alleyway all together. He swished through the water when an intensity resembling a firecracker raced up his spine from his foot. His butt met the ground with a wet thud and immediately grabbed his right foot to clutch it as tears involuntarily formed in his eyes._

_Apparently, he hadn’t stepped on anything sharp, but a rock underneath the water had hit bullseye on one of the biggest blisters on his foot. His whole body trembled as it tensed up, a little cry emerging from his dry lips. For a hot second a hum drowned out the sounds of people talking and vendors selling tobacco, and he swore that he saw God’s light. The piece of newspaper threatened to come up as well._

_He rocked back and forth, as ignorant of the people passing by as they were of him, biting his teeth together and breathing loudly. Momma and her stupid breathing techniques had never helped, and they still weren’t. But somehow, the pain became more bearable for every exhale he released. Eventually, he could let go of his foot. Though it stung like a mmmm to put his foot back on the ground, all the muck in the water would probably numb it out in a few days._

_The little boy limped his way back to the main street, impatient to move away from these unsightly women who had caused this terrible accident, but didn’t make it further than the corner of the wall before he bumped into someone and landed back on his butt._

_The audacity of these Englishmen._

_He looked up, not expecting to see a man clad in a military uniform, who had a baby resting against his chest and shoulder, still standing there and looking down at him._

_“What?” he asked skeptically._

_“Sorry, didn’t mean to bump into you, chap,” the man replied._

_Hold on, this wasn’t correct._

_“I don’t have anything,” he said, but the man didn’t budge._

_“Neither do I,” smiled the man and adjusted the position of the baby so it rested more comfortably._

_No, no, no, this was wrong._

_“Why are you looking at me like that?” the man asked._

_“Why do you look like me?” he bit back, “You’re a Brit.”_

_The man looked at him for a while, at some point dragging his blonde hair back to keep the rain from running down his face. The little boy was slightly taken aback when the forelock didn’t reveal another eye, but rather a blur of pink and purple and other darker colors. The baby in his arms began squirming and soon its wails tried their hardest to gain victory over the sound of raindrops, and the man had to shush him ever so gently, but to no use. Eventually the man looked at the little boy with the blistered feet and held out his hand._

_“You look like you could need a place to live,” the man said and ended up taking the boy’s hand when he didn’t move._

_“But I’m American,” the boy mumbled._

_“Yes, I can see that,” the man responded and started walking. As the boy complied, he noticed the roughness of the skin in the man’s palms. Not at all like Momma’s._

_“What’s your name, little man?” the man asked._

_“Uhm… Alfred Jones,” muttered the boy._

_Alfred kept on wobbling next to the man due to the stinging in his foot whenever it touched the ground, and eventually the man let go of his hand and pulled him a bit closer to his side so Alfred could support himself onto him while walking._

_“You could become a Kirkland instead,” the man chortled and tousled Alfred’s bacteria confluence of a fringe, “If you want to, of course.”_

_And it wasn’t like Alfred had a burning passion to decline._

* * *

The raindrops thumped on the ceiling, and Alfred’s forehead was plastered onto a book again. This time, however, he was wide awake.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

The periorbital area did not feel hot, it did _not_ feel hot, and his blurry vision was one hundred percent not blurrier than usual. Neither was there a stinging in his jaw and a faster than usual heartbeat, nor a tremble in his lip, because he could not allow it. Was it scientifically possible to get rid of one’s own body without it physically hurting?

In the end, Alfred could taste the dinner in the back of his throat and made haste to the bathroom. As a few tears he fought so fiercely to repress emerged from the corners of his eyes, he hoped the drumming rain would cover up the sound of the hiccups that came along with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been excited to post this chapter, I hope you liked it!  
> Seeya next week!


	21. Urgency

It was late afternoon when Alfred suddenly remembered, “Huh, it’s April already”. Frankly, he could barely remember in detail what had happened the last days of March since they had gone by so fast. And as always, he had done his best to drown his worries and pains away with workloads. However, it seemed like people were in cahoots against him, something Alfred realized when every place to which he wanted to offer his services denied him and encouraged him to lie down and rest. It had made Alfred mighty irritated but he obeyed their requests the first day, hoping to God that they were right. When he awoke the next day he felt no better and, frankly, a little betrayed. Because he had listened to them, he had lost a whole day where he could have worked and helped out wherever he was needed. The townsfolk held some kind of grudge against him. Could it be that they thought that he wasn’t reliable enough? Which would explain why they wanted him to rest, but Alfred swore that he was able-bodied and immediately dismissed their, including Dad’s, pleas. 

If no one in Smalltown wanted him, then to Hartlepool he would go.

Poor Ludwig almost managed to refuse him a ticket but let him buy one anyway. This was close to the end of March and it was how the rest of March looked like; Alfred got up early to take the train to the farm, came home in the afternoon before he dragged his feet to Matt’s to read, sometimes falling asleep and staying the night.

There had been one day when Alfred had seen strange things during his day of work and smelled things that weren’t present, and he knew it was imaginary because there was no one who made Christmas pudding at this time of year. Why his body was playing tricks was beyond him, but that particular day he had barely been able to move his eyes without his head spinning into a fit of pain. After work, he had hurried over to the Bonnefoys and realized that Matt and uncle Francis had left for Oxford, and for some reason it made Alfred puke. At night he barely slept. During the day he wondered when Matt would be home. Perhaps Alfred could just take the train to Oxford himself?

In the blur of Matt’s absence Alfred still knocked on their door after work to check if he had come home yet.

_Knock, knock. Mathieu, are you there? For Christ’s sake, I need you to help me with studying. Haha, very funny, pretending not to be there. Could you please open the door now? I also want you to check my symptoms,_ not _because I’m sick, but because I can smell freaking Christmas pudding wherever I go. And before you tell me “to go and rest”, shut your mouth. …Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry. But can you open the door now,_ please _? Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow. Seeya._

Sometimes he swore he could hear Matt’s footsteps on the other side, but they were probably imaginary too. He had to admit that this whole perceiving-things-that-weren’t-present thing was a bit strange, but as long as Alfred was still standing he would continue to keep his body busy with work. And that was why he was currently painting the inn ‘bluebell blue’ after having persuaded Toris that he could help.

“Hello, Alfred,” came a voice around the corner, its embodiment peeking forth. Toris walked up next to Alfred and took a few steps back, taking in the fresh blueness of the wall.

“This looks fantastic!” he said, a smile in his voice.

“Good,” Alfred responded. After having been painting all yesterday and today; Dipping the brush in the paint, smearing it onto the wooden planks until the paint faded slightly, dipping it back in and repeating, it had become something he did on autopilot now. It wasn’t even satisfying anymore. Alfred had come here to work and redirect his thoughts, but now that he was painting without having to focus, he kept focusing on the agony of simply moving, and the absence of Matt.

“I thought a little color would liven up town,” Toris said thoughtfully, “I find it nice that the color resembles the sky. It’s a little poetic. Not that I am much of a romantic myself, but maybe people who are may appreciate it.”

Ten bucks that uncle Francis would bring this up first thing for the next joined dinner.

“I really appreciate that you wanted to help,” Toris sighed, “But a part of me wants to send you straight back home.”

Immediately upon those words, Alfred stopped painting and shot Toris the glare of a thousand knives.

“You’re not sending me home,” he threatened, shoving the knives further to Toris’ throat. Toris didn’t budge, however. He was just slightly taken aback. His lips parted and closed right away as his surprised expression morphed into something that resembled concern. With his torso slightly bent forward and his head cocked to the side, his voice lowered.

“Is everything fine at home?”

Alfred almost released a loud grunt of dissatisfaction but ended up clicking his tongue and looking away.

“Sure,” he mumbled, before dipping the painting brush into the bucket and continuing where he had left off.

“I mean it, Alfred,” Toris pressed and firmly grasped Alfred’s shoulder, “You need to tell me if-”

With a motion harsher than Alfred had intended, he shrugged Toris’ hand off and shoved it away.

“It’s fine, alright?” Alfred spat and proceeded painting, releasing a liberating sigh. He could still feel Toris’ green eyes on his back, and for every second Alfred knew that these well-meaning and mellow eyes were attentively listening to him, the urge to release all the steam from his boiling rage felt like a lit bomb. And to be fair, he knew that confiding in someone wouldn’t be the end of the world, but he still made sure to keep his mouth shut even if that steam would come out through his eyes instead, which he also did his best to prevent. Whatever was keeping him from talking about it was unidentifiable, yet so present that he could almost see the soreness the chains gave him.

But Alfred was fine, and so was his home-life, even if the last place he wanted to be was wherever his family was.

“Alright,” Toris finally concluded in an exasperated tone, his voice sounding slightly farther away when he turned around to leave, “But if I don’t see those eyebags disappear soon, I’m not letting you work here until they have.”

“ _I hope the commie fucking burns down your inn while you watch_ ,” Alfred mumbled under his breath, and although not caring too much whether Toris heard or not, relieved when Toris didn’t seem to catch it. In a fit of burning annoyance, Alfred jabbed the brush into the wall, leaving an unsightly splat which he smoothed out right afterward. 

Focus, focus.

Adults weren’t supposed to let emotions affect their actions. He wasn’t like the people on the street who let their emotions decide whether they were up for a task that day, and thus staying down in the dumps because they found it difficult to get started with hard work.

Paint until the blue strokes left small specs without color, dip the brush and smooth it out.

Smooth; Things were going smoothly. Things would go smoothly. After work he’d be a few coins richer and he would be able to pay for tuition fees if the university got his letter.

Ah, _shit_ , the letter. Maybe it had been lost on the way, or maybe they had gotten it already but forgotten about it, thus ensuring that Alfred wouldn’t get into school. For all he knew, they probably saw him as unreliable too. The knot in his stomach tightened so much that he thought he might throw up again, but the second he thought so, he heard Toris turn back to him and speak.

“Seems like you have a visitor,” he chortled half-heartedly.

He was right. Putting the paintbrush into the bucket and turning around, Alfred saw Lily running down the street whilst shouting his name. Alfred put the bucket down and raised his hand in a little wave to signalize that he had seen her. Soon, she approached the two.

“Why the haste?” Toris asked with a soft expression. Lily briefly smiled back at him as a greeting before she stepped up to a surprised Alfred and grabbed his wrist with both hands.

“Wha-”

“Alfred,” she said and panted it out for a few seconds, before looking up at him, her hair disheveled and eyes blank, “You have to… To come home.”

Alfred scrunched up his nose and furrowed his eyebrows.

“To me or to you?”

“You!” Lily contended.

Exchanging between looking at Lily and Toris, Alfred felt his mind spinning. If Lily had run all the way from his house to here so fast that she could barely speak in full sentences, what in the world was awaiting him at home?

“You can go, Alfred,” Toris said before taking the paintbrush in his own hands, “You’ll get paid full for it.”

Before Alfred could say anything more, Lily dragged him away and the two set course through the main street back to Alfred’s house.

“What happened?” Alfred asked after Lily had let go of his wrist, her sight glued to the road in front of her.

“Eliza and I wanted to say our regards to you,” she explained in between heavy breaths as they ran, “But you weren’t there, so Arthur invited us for tea.”

“Okay, and?” Alfred followed up, knowing full well she wasn’t done explaining yet.

“But then he fainted and-”  
  


“He _what_!?”

“He fainted and his-”

This time it was Alfred’s turn to grab Lily by the wrist and she stumbled backward due to the sudden stop, Alfred catching her but not letting go. He drilled his gaze through Lily’s eyes as she caught her breath, before she released a controlled exhale.

“He collapsed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting on Friday, new workplace is whipping my ass, but hey I like challenges! And I hope you liked this short chapter bc shit be goin down.
> 
> Seeya next week!


	22. Half-truths

“He collapsed on the floor and his breathing was very heavy and fast,” Lily timidly, but gravely, explained without meeting Alfred’s eyes, “And none of us knew what to do, so I came to you because you probably know.”

When Alfred let go of her wrist, where they stood in the middle of the main street, he noticed the redness he left on her skin after having held onto her so firmly.

“W-well, I…” he began, his stream of words coming to a blockade. What would Lily, and everyone else, think if he said that he had absolutely zero idea of what to do? That he had just recently vaguely found out that Dad’s war memories were still lingering in his body, and _maybe_ causing him problems? That Alfred wasn’t someone they could rely on to handle this?

“Lily, listen…” Alfred tried, but the words once again got choked. No matter how fiercely he fought for the liberation of his words and thoughts, they were tied down like soldiers caught by an enemy force, and Alfred kept stuttering his way through a sentence that was nonsensical at best.

And then Lily slapped him across the cheek.

“Your father needs you _now_ ,” she said in a low tone (as low as she could), before heading for the house again with no more words uttered. 

The silence of the street echoed in Alfred’s head as he saw her little frame run farther and farther out of reach, and a second slap from reality nearly knocked him out.

Dad had collapsed.

No one knew what to do.

The least Alfred could do was to get control over the situation, like a proper grown-up.

* * *

The door was in sight. Alfred hooked his hand onto Lily’s forearm and dragged her along as he sped up. They stumbled through the door, almost falling in the process.

“Upstairs,” Lily panted as she supported her hands on her knees, Alfred grappling the handrail by the stairs to keep himself from literally stumbling through the door. Three steps at a time, he was upstairs in the wink of an eye and he stepped through the door frame that led to the living room. What met his eyes was Eliza kneeling beside the couch, and Dad lying on his back with his head supported by two pillows. Without a word, Alfred took meager steps inside, his gaze glued to the red face of Dad and his fluttering eyelashes.

“We’re so sorry, Alfred,” Elizabeta said and removed the washing cloth from Arthur’s forehead, “We had no idea what to do.”

Alfred stood beside her but didn’t kneel down. Instead, he looked at Arthur’s face and made sure his breathing was stable. Which it wasn’t. It was unsteady and uneven, as if he were trying to deliver a speech right after having run through town five times. He looked like any other person than the calm, witty and strict Dad. Alfred turned to look at Elizabeta who was now standing as well next to him, and Alfred felt his jaws churn.

“What do I do..?” he asked her, and she looked as if she wanted to embrace him.

“Has this never happened before?” she asked instead, putting her arm around Lily when she entered the living room as well.

“No,” Alfred replied, his eyes gradually looking more and more to his feet.

“I guess none of us know what to do, then,” Elizabeta chortled sympathetically.

“...No,” Alfred said, his vision blurrier than usual and the area around his eyes burning. He quickly turned around and tucked his shirt into his pants to cover up the sound of his single sniff.

“Was Peter here when you came over?” he asked promptly.

“Arthur said he was out playing,” Lily said equally stiffly, “But I think it would be for the best if we told him too.”

A brief chuckle came from Alfred’s lips as he eventually turned around, not knowing that his eyes were still a little blank.

“We are absolutely _not_ telling-”

Alfred realized in that moment that God would never be on his side; Two voices, one from each side of the room, sounded throughout, either muttering “Al…?” or gasping “Alfie!?”

As if it couldn’t get more chaotic.

Peter’s quick steps raced across the room and over to Alfred, before he caught notice of Dad on the couch looking like he had just pulled three all-nighters in a row. As Peter latched onto him and let all the questions in his mind cascade through his mouth, Elizabeta and Lily excused themselves out as Alfred briefly thanked them for their assistance. Once he heard the outer door shut, he approached the couch once again and looked down at the two others. Dad didn’t seem to be keeping up with Peter’s frantic speech.

“Peter, shut it,” Alfred bluntly commanded, and Peter’s little voice immediately disappeared from the space.

Once the silence settled, Arthur’s blank eye began moving and his breathing steadied ever so slightly. First, he laid his eyes on Peter who was on the verge of tears next to him, and softly stroked his cheek. Then he looked up at Alfred and weakly beckoned him to come closer, and let his arm fall when he refused.

“Mighty nice of the ladies to check on you,” Arthur said, voice cracked and stuck in his throat, but as calm as could be.

However, when Alfred looked upon the calm and familial scenery, the burning in his chest blazed up and became a storm. With hands trembling and heart hammering against his ribcage, it took him every last piece of temperance to not give Arthur a solid punch in the face.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” he simply asked as he forced his voice to stay sturdy. Both pairs of eyes in front of him instantaneously looked his way.

“Say anything about what?” Arthur asked and cleared his throat.

“What do you _think_?” Alfred shot back with a sarcasm that carried a heavy load of his inner turmoil. Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. Peter turned around to fully look at his older brother.

“I frankly don’t know, Al, I-”  
  


“I bet you think I’m stupid like everyone else does,” Alfred spat and clenched his fists, “And I _am_ stupid but don’t you think I’d find out eventually? Or am I really that hopeless?”

“Find out about what?” Peter asked.

“Hell, what did you even rescue me for if all we’re supposed to do is to live up here and not be able to go anywhere?” Immediately Alfred wished to take that back, but he couldn’t stop now; The storm was already ablaze and he made sure no one was left unscorched.

“Al, why don’t you please tell us what’s wrong?” Arthur pleaded, and Alfred felt all these weeks of preparing for this question fuel the storm.

“Why don’t _you_ tell _me_ what’s wrong? Or maybe it’s better to just keep everything for ourselves, since you love doing that so much?”

“Alfie, what’s wrong?” Peter blubbered.

“It pisses me the _fff_ \- off that freakin’ _Lily and Eliza_ knew about this problem before both me and Peter!” Alfred accused with a significantly raised voice.

“What problem, Alfie?”

“Al, come on, be reasonable-”

“ _You_ be reasonable, for Pete’s sake! Were you ever thinking of telling me and Peter about your psych- psychogol- psyol- _mental_ problems, or were you going to wait for a crisis situation and we didn’t know what to do!? If Lily and Eliza weren’t here-”

“What problem?” Peter tried again.

“I said _shut it_!” Alfred yelled at him, his eyes wide.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted, snapping his fingers into an accusing point toward Alfred. His piercing glare watered slightly. “You quit that insolence this instant.”

In the short-lived quietness, Peter was sobbing and begging Alfred to calm down. Arthur kept looking at Alfred while a few already present tears pathetically ran down his cheek. Alfred took a small step back, gesturing vaguely everywhere as he himself felt his eyes prickle. In the haze of his blistering flare-up, he opened his mouth repeatedly without any words escaping. Of all the sins committed in this house, why was _his_ the ones worth pointing out? Was it wrong of him to rightfully accuse Arthur of keeping secrets from the family, and to try and give him the taste of his own medicine? Indeed, Alfred too kept secrets but his case was different. He was going to tell them one day, but in Arthur’s case it had been eight years and he hadn’t said _shit_.

“You-” Alfred started, his words once again getting caught up in his throat. Trembling with unspoken words, he clenched and unclenched his fists, but realized that the watchful eyes of the others far overpowered whatever he was trying to cough up.

In the end, Alfred turned around as Peter tried his best with his miserable, whiny voice to talk reason into him. Alfred wished he had some dramatic line to mumble under his breath before leaving, but his mind was as blank as his eyes when he left the living room.

His pulse threatened to pulverize his skull.

His eyes stung.

His jaw churned.

His body was made of bricks.

Before he could let tears well up, he let his world go black for a moment.


	23. The art of childishness

“ _Alfie_? _… Alfie? Alfie?_ ”

It was as if Alfred was resurfacing after having been floating under water when he opened his eyes. He was lying where he had dropped off; On his bed, which felt like concrete against his aching body.

“Alfie…?”

He turned his head to the side and met Peter’s puffy eyes and wet cheeks.

“What do you want?” Alfred asked indifferently, looking back at the ceiling.

“I thought you had fainted too,” Peter sniveled. He kept sobbing and whimpering for a while before gripping Alfred’s wrist with his trembling hands.

“Come.”

Alfred tore his hand from his grasp.

“Leave me alone.”

However, Peter grabbed it again, this time holding onto it as if it was a matter of life and death. His thick eyebrows furrowed as his eyes became blanker and a new pool of tears welled up in them.

“Come upstairs,” he adjured, pulling ever so slightly, “We have to talk.”

Alfred snorted, but didn’t resist Peter’s pulling.

“If Dad ain’t talking, then neither am I.”

“But Daddy _is_ going to talk!”

Slowly, Alfred met with Peter’s pleading eyes. In all honesty, the last place Alfred wanted to be was upstairs with the rest of his family, even if meeting them would mean that Dad would talk. What even was the point? It had been going on for long enough, and Alfred was fine just as it was. However, his wrist in Peter’s small, trembling hands managed to beckon the familial love that Alfred almost forgot what felt like at this point. If not for his own sake, then at least he would go upstairs for Peter’s. Again, Alfred withdrew his hand before releasing a heavy sigh, his body creaking as much as the bedframe when he got up.

The stairs grinded underneath his feet as he made his way up. With every step, he wanted to go straight back to bed but was blocked by Peter who walked behind him.

Dad was sitting on the couch with his hands idly in his lap. His eye was still blank, which meant that Alfred hadn’t been out for too long. Once all three had settled to the best of their ability; Alfred having ensured he sat as far away as possible from Arthur on the couch as possible, and Peter standing on the floor in front of them, a terribly cumbersome silence befell them. Although it was momentary, to Alfred it felt like minutes until Arthur decided to speak up, his voice much more controlled now.

“What is it that you want to say, Peter?” he asked calmly.

The young boy in front of them fiddled with his shirt and looked at his feet. When he spoke, his puffed-up cheeks muddled his words.

“You two always fight,” he mumbled, his face flaring up into a bright red, “I feel bad for not wanting Alfie to come home anymore, because when he does you two fight. But not a loud fight, but fighting so I can’t hear it.”

“Hey-!”

Within a second Alfred was on his feet to defend himself from the accusations, but a brief shush from Arthur forced him to take a deep breath and sit back down. The lash-out manifested as bouncing of the leg instead.

“I want to have breakfast together again and to hang with Alfie when he comes home from work, but it never happens anymore. And Daddy is so quiet all the time, and can’t sleep because he worries. And then Daddy and Alfie finally talk with each other, but you just silently fight instead. But then I go outside but everyone talks about the war, but I can’t remember anything from it because I wasn’t born yet…”

Eventually Peter brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms as his voice became more turbulent. He tilted his head forward as his tears fell to the floor by his feet.

“I feel like you know something I don’t and try to keep me out of it,” he said, his voice heavy with desolation, latching onto Alfred’s heart akin to a fly getting trapped in a cobweb. When Peter stood out there on the floor in the living room in front of them, yet looking so forlorn that there might as well be a wall between them, a part of Alfred wished they could go back to the night they lay in his bed laughing till they felt a six pack forming. Thinking of the past and of the present, about the family that had found each other on the brink of desperation.

“Why is Alfie so obsessed with Daddy’s problem, and why are none of you telling me what it is? If being a grown-up means that I can’t cry about my problems anymore, then I don’t want to become one!”

As Peter’s sobs rang throughout the walls and draped a curtain of lead over his shoulders, Alfred stared hard and focused into the wall. Now that Peter had finally lifted the rug, the next step was daring to look the abomination lurking underneath in the eyes and beckon it to come forth. But it required something Alfred didn’t have: It required the feeling of urgency that something had to change. However, Peter was a child, which meant that he as a matter of course would cry about things that didn’t matter. Alfred, on the other hand, was strong since he was able to push through the pain until it one day ceased to be.

“I didn’t know you felt that way, Peter,” Arthur gently said, establishing eye contact with the desolated boy standing before him. He took a deep breath and looked at both of his boys; Peter, and Alfred who refused to look at him back.

“As a father, I wish I had been able to see it before and pry enough into it that we could fix it earlier,” Arthur said before he reached his hand toward Peter and pulled him to him, stroking him softly on the back, “And you’re a clever, little fellow, Peter. I too think grown-ups could learn a thing or two from children.”

“Then why don’t you tell us what’s wrong, huh?” Alfred muttered indifferently and annoyed, still looking into the wall. Arthur cleared his throat and chuckled faintly.

“Perhaps I should, but it would be for the best if you let me do it at a later point, when things have calmed down… Such things tend to be incredibly personal, and…” In the brief moment Alfred glanced at him, Arthur scraped the nail of his thumb against the nail on his middle finger while frowning at the floor, “If I speak now, I will end up saying things that genuinely aren’t necessary to tell.”

“Well,” Alfred concluded, “If you’re not talking, then I won’t either.”

“Alfie!” Peter protested.

“In that case,” Arthur said, the apologetic look on his face making him look so separated from the rest of the room, “I am sorry I couldn’t help you, and I will try harder.”

Alfred got to his feet and finally looked Arthur in the eye.

“God, what does that even mean?” Alfred groaned, his tired voice drastically raised, “What are _you_ trying to do, just sitting at home every waking second?”

“To be a good father, of course!”

“Well, you’re not very good at it.”

“I am highly aware of that, Al, did you think it was a dance on roses?”

“Ya think _I’m_ dancing on roses!?”

“If you don’t think I’m doing my part, Alfred, then you have to tell me!” Arthur finally stood up as well and shouted after having clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, with Peter trying to no avail to hug him back to a calm state, “No one can help you if you refuse to tell anybody what’s bothering you!”

The piercing stare from Arthur made Alfred want to turn to look at the wall again. Arthur took shaky breaths in and out while he watched Alfred with his attentive eye, while Alfred himself did his best to withstand. But his stare crumbled like soil being blown up by a landmine, yet still he tried to figure out a way to hold up his defenses.

… Defenses from what, exactly? 

“I don’t need-”

From logic? From Dad’s harsh gaze?

“I mean-…”

From the biting truth that Alfred’s head was still nine years old?

“Uh, Dad,” Alfred ever so quietly said again, lifting his head slowly.

Arthur didn’t budge but became responsive to Peter’s clinging. His facial features softened.

“Yes?”

For a few seconds Alfred stood isolated from the two others not knowing what to say, before deciding that perhaps it was better to show them instead. Therefore, Alfred quickly headed downstairs and lifted his pillow, once again holding the heavy envelopes in his hand. And although he had dreaded this moment ever since he made the decision to try and go to university in the first place, he put one foot in front of the other until he stood in the living room once more. With slow steps, he approached them and reached out his hand and Arthur perplexedly took the envelopes.

“What’s that, Daddy?” Peter asked calmly, climbing onto the couch next to him. Arthur glanced over the envelopes repeatedly before his eyebrows rose.

“Well, blow me down…” he muttered, reading over them again before looking right up at Alfred, “Letters from the universities of Oxford and Cambridge?”

“Dad, listen,” Alfred started. As he stuttered through a meaningless sentence, he realized that perhaps the time of pretending was over. He vaguely gestured with his hands toward the envelopes and cracked a sheepish smile.

“I’ve been rejected twice now,” he chuckled, “Cool, huh?”

“You’ve applied twice and- And you never told us about it?”

With the crinkled, stamped pieces of paper in his hand, Arthur looked as if he had just witnessed a crime scene and nobody believed him.

“I thought maybe that I could surprise you guys one day, and say ‘Haha, look here, family! I’ll go to Oxford and study, and ya don’t gotta worry about the money because I worked up enough myself, haha!’, but… But instead…” 

There was the black hole in his stomach, and a fireball in his chest. The next breath brought the stinging jaws.

“And I worked so hard-”

The blurring vision. And soon, the feeling of all the steam that had boiled up inside him oozing out so considerably that he had to clutch his stomach to not fall to his knees.

“I thought maybe I could show you that- that… That you were right in not leaving me behind on that street corner, and all I’m doing is my best, but I know I’ll be rejected again in a few weeks because I just can’t be enough-”

As Alfred did his best to hold his ground on the floor, Peter left Dad’s side and opened his arms for a hug. It took Alfred some time of asking himself whether he was even worthy of this. After doing his best to wipe away the tears, they welled up once again when his legs ultimately gave in and he let Peter hold onto him for all he was truly worth.

“I don’t even know what I want anymore,” Alfred openly sobbed as he grabbed onto the back of Peter’s shirt, “I just want to know that I made the right decision in coming here.”

All the pain he didn’t know he had walked around carrying had gathered into a little ball and was ravaging the inside of his chest and head, and it brought Alfred nothing but agony, but now that he had already started this inner rampage, he could not stop wailing like the child he still was. And although it was painful, tearing the inside of his chest and skull apart, it felt so, so _good_. Like a baby who just learned how to use his voice. 

At some point, a soft hand on his shoulder stilled the storm and made it feel as if he was standing in the eye of a gradually taming hurricane.

“I guess I have something to confess as well, then...” said Dad’s gentle tone as he gave his boys a pat on their backs. He waited for them to quiet down a little. “Do you know why we live up in this anything-but-lavish place?”

“Because it’s safer?” Peter tried, with phlegm from having cried five times his recommended dose clogging his voice.

“That too, but mostly because one day you two will want to live somewhere else, and by that time…”

Arthur sat back down on the couch and invited the boys to do the same. They eventually obliged and plumped down on each side of him, and he wrapped his arms around their shoulders to pull them a little closer.

“...And by that time, I don’t want you two to worry about money.”

Suddenly, Alfred’s sobs came to a stop as his eyebrows rose and eyes widened.

“You mean-”

“They’re for you two,” Arthur smiled. However, while Peter entered a little spiral of amazement, Alfred couldn’t bring himself to do the same. Of course, he was surprised, but…

“I can’t let you do that,” he mumbled, and sniffed.

“Listen, Al,” Arthur insisted and softly forced Alfred to look at him, “You have proven what you need to prove, whatever that is. Besides…” Arthur popped a slightly sarcastic smirk, much like in the old photograph, before giving him a little whack in the back of his head.

“You sure worked up a lot of money, but did you truly think that’d be enough to pay for _all_ those tuition fees?”

Alfred thought about it for a brief moment before his tearful glumness softened into an ever so little smile.

“Maybe not.”

“I wanna help you too, Alfie,” Peter pouted, something which Arthur soon joined in by giving Alfred a look ever so mild and understanding. And although Alfred’s ego kept screaming at him not to leave his years of work behind because it would prove just how dependent on others he was to make his reason to live worthwhile, he dug his trembling fingers into his palms and took a sharp breath in.

It wasn’t like he had a burning passion to decline.

“Please do.”


	24. Morning

The sun shining in from the window pointing westward was perfectly positioned to hit Alfred’s eyes, its heat being what eventually woke him from his long and peaceful slumber. His cushion moved steadily up and down, and as he came to, the image of the little three-leaf clover family falling asleep together on the couch came to his mind. Alfred lifted his head slightly. Released a little groan. Next to him was Dad who was snoring due to his head leaning onto the top of the back of the couch, his arms around both the boys. For once he slept with a little smile on his face. On the other side of Dad was Peter whose head rested on Dad’s lap, ever so affectionately drooling onto his pants. A slow and calm breathing sounded through his squished cheek. Then there was Alfred who was resting against Dad’s lean and secure shoulder.

According to the sun’s position it was soon time to head out, Alfred thought. However, he was no longer sleeping in his own bed which usually felt cold and hard. In comparison to the comfort of where he was now, the pain when he mustered up some core-strength to get moving suddenly became all the more unbearable. In the midst of his discrete movements, Dad’s arm around him moved slightly. Or rather, pulled him closer. Alfred hesitated, but eventually yielded. Perhaps today wasn’t the day he should go out and sweat himself to the point of exhaustion after everything that had happened yesterday.

Alfred quietly muttered a little “Alright, then” and once again rested his head against Dad’s chest. He was out in the blink of an eye.

* * *

The next time Alfred awoke, it was because his stomach vigorously rumbled. So much so that Alfred wasn’t the only one who woke up.

“Seems like someone could need breakfast,” Arthur chortled in his half-sleep, still in his seemingly uncomfortable sleeping position.

“Just a little peckish,” Alfred replied.

They stayed in a brief silence before Arthur lifted his head with an ungodly crack coming from his neck, before yawning loudly and heartily which resulted in a little coughing fit. Fortunately, he calmed down just as quickly.

“Did you ever have a cat?” he asked calmly, Alfred raising his eyebrows at the sudden change in topic.

“No, why?”

Alfred followed the gesture of Arthur’s eye, landing in his lap where Peter hadn’t moved an inch. He slept soundlessly with his nose buried in Arthur’s stomach, his smile revealing that he was dreaming of pleasantries. The two older people watched him delightfully, Arthur eventually caressing him through his blonde, tousled hair.

“In Cotswolds we had a kitty named Minty,” he said as he watched the little boy sleep, “And whenever she fell asleep on someone like this, a house rule was that everyone else serve you as you were not allowed to wake her.”

Having pets was something Peter had used to ask about a lot in the past but seemed to have forgotten nowadays. The thought didn’t strike Alfred very often, but perhaps it would have been nice.

“She could sleep for hours and I am the honored family member to hold the longest record.” Arthur cracked a cheeky grin. “And being one of the younger, of course I decided to be an arse to them.”

“I want a cat too…”

Alfred and Arthur looked back to Peter who was still in a sleepy bliss, probably thinking of cats.

“Perhaps one day,” Arthur said before sighing and gently moving Peter’s head out of the way so he could get up. And just like the little cuddler he was, Peter immediately moved to Alfred and curled up to him instead.

“I think I’ll help Dad with breakfast, Peter-”

“No, you are not,” Arthur promptly interrupted without looking at him, “You stay there and rest.”

Although it irked Alfred a little bit to have to stay put, he let it slide. Instead, he too moved Peter’s head slightly, but instead of getting up he lied down, resulting in Peter crawling on top of him and refusing to move as he closed his eyes. Like a little cat.

“Peter, I can’t breathe,” Alfred chuckled and gingerly attempted to shove Peter off, but to no avail. On the contrary Peter made himself even more at peace.

“Peter doesn’t care,” Peter calmly demanded.

“Then I guess Peter doesn’t care when Alfie asks if he wants to hang out tomorrow?”

As Alfred expected, Peter’s eyes shot open and shimmered like the sky itself.

“Really?” the younger one gasped, touching noses with Alfred.

“For sure,” the older one replied before Peter rested his head to his chest, fingers running slowly through his hair. A part of Alfred wanted to stop time and stay in this bubble of comfort forever before resuming his life; Where Dad hummed in the kitchen as he made breakfast, and with Peter’s little body cuddled up to his own. The other part of him couldn’t wait to see where things would go from now on. And the last part had the tiniest bit of hope that the application letter he sent would never reach the university.

* * *

A brief and informal table prayer commenced the meal that felt like ages ago since they had last had together. On the table were some sandwiches with eggs and bacon, a filled teapot, apple juice for Peter, and a glass filled halfway with water for the crocus flower Peter had picked a few days ago. Which reminded Alfred of something.

“Did ya get a new airplane?” he asked as he cast a quick glance at the blue toy plane on the floor. Peter gulped down the last of the juice in his glass and eagerly slammed it onto the table when done.

“Isn’t it cool, Romano made it for me!” he said. Before anyone could say anything else, Peter hopped from his chair and went to retrieve the little plane. With glimmering eyes from probably having waited an intolerable amount of time to show it off, he headed back to the table.

“It’s even got my name on it, look!” he said and pointed at the white letters painted somewhat sloppily onto the marine blue.

“Wickeeeed,” Alfred commented. He wanted to hold it as well, but both he and Peter met Arthur’s judgmental scowl from behind the brim of his teacup.

“But _Daaaaaad_ ,” Alfred pouted with Peter promptly joining. But none could sway the man.

“No toys by the table,” he simply said as he put down the teacup. Although Alfred and Peter both stuck their tongue out or frowned at him, Peter eventually put his plane away so he could pour himself more apple juice. Except for the juice glugging into his glass, silence befell the room. As Alfred chomped on his breakfast, he came to think of how today would have looked like hadn’t it been for yesterday’s events. If Dad didn’t collapse (for whatever reason that was), Alfred wouldn’t have lashed out at him like he did. And if Alfred hadn’t lashed out at him, he wouldn’t have fallen unconscious himself due to exhaustion. If Alfred hadn’t fallen unconscious, Peter wouldn’t have reached his breaking point yet where he urged them all to talk with each other. And lastly, if they all hadn’t talked like they did the evening prior, perhaps Alfred wouldn’t have been so relaxed with the silence around the table. Most probably he wouldn’t even be there because he’d have forced himself to go to work three hours ago instead. But here he was, watching as Peter poured his third glass of apple juice and Arthur keeping a watchful eye on him. It was in moments like these when he thought that maybe, just maybe, he had found his rightful place.

“So, Al,” came Dad’s voice and brought Alfred back from his thoughts, “Unless I heard wrong, you have applied for another university?”

Alfred took his sweet time in chewing his food before swallowing.

“Perchance,” he said with a little raise of his pinky. He took a new bite of the sandwich. He was aware of the anticipating stares as he chewed, and before he could take another bite Peter yelled, “ _Nooooo_ , you have to answer first!”

So Alfred put the food down and licked his fingers before leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, I sent an application in the middle of March to Newcastle,” he said, looking around the room.

“And when do you get a response?” Arthur asked.

“They said April or May, so probably in not too long.”

“Is that why you’ve been reading so much?” Peter asked in the midst of the process of pouring his fourth glass which Arthur finally thought to be enough. He stopped him by lightly squeezing his shoulder.

“Well, yeah,” Alfred replied and scratched his neck, “Matt helped me study all these years, so I guess it’s mostly thanks to him that I read at all.”

“And what may you be reading about?”

“History, civilization… All that stuff.”

Alfred tried to ignore Arthur’s conscientious stare.

“You don’t look too inspired,” Arthur remarked.

A part of Alfred was about to glue a smile onto his face and lie about how extremely motivated he was, but if he did that, what even was the point of yesterday? He swallowed his act back in and sunk into his chair, playing with his empty teacup.

“I dunno, man,” he muttered. As he heard a subtle inhale from Dad he braced himself for the preach about how he was able to do anything he put his mind to, how things were different now, and that Alfred was simply being too harsh on himself. That was perhaps one reason as to why Alfred didn’t want to tell them his sudden change of heart. However, there was no such response. Instead, Arthur leaned back and brought his teacup to his lips.

“Do whatever you fancy. As long as you rest for a few days first.”

As if he had no care in the world, Arthur ever so sophisticatedly sipped the last of his tea and thanked for the meal. Peter gulped down the two days’ worth of apple juice before following Dad’s example. Before Alfred could do the same, he sat back and looked at them. They were so calm about this idea, and he definitely wouldn’t complain about that. Frankly, Alfred wouldn’t have had it any other way; As long as he knew they were there when he needed them to be, what else could he really ask for?


	25. An afternoon in the streets

During the next few days, Peter was unfortunate enough to come down with a cold. He was completely bedridden for the second day of his sickness, and the way he kept denying his worsening state Arthur simply could not stop nudging Alfred every now and then. Similarly to Peter, now that Alfred let his body fully rest, all the aches and pains that he had neglected finally emerged and ravaged throughout him. It was so bad that he had to make sure he moved every 30 seconds because if he laid still for too long, trying to move any muscle caused a pain so excruciating that he would either cry or need help. And with two incapacitated boys in the house, Arthur had become one busy housedad.

Alfred had found out that Dad’s work interested him greatly. Both Alfred and Peter had known that Dad worked with some kind of logistics, but further than that was unknown territory. During these days it had been revealed to them Dad was the head of managing the town’s budgeting. Peter seemed to be slightly turned off by all the numbers, ‘allocation’-s, ‘expenditure plan’-s, ‘accrual and cash accounting’-s and ‘audit’-s. While Alfred wasn’t too keen on the concept of budgeting and financial planning itself either, he found great entertainment in reading the numbers and interpreting them.

And so, they spent their five consecutive days driving each other crazy inside the house until Peter had finally recovered. Alfred’s body was in a much better state as well and at long last, Alfred asked Peter if he wanted to go outside with him and help with some light work. Currently they found themselves picking up garbage on the main street, and had been going at it for an hour. The sun was ever so slightly beginning to fall.

“Yannow, it isn’t long ago since people started managing their waste here,” Alfred said, picking up an old beer bottle and tossing it into the sack, “Because of industrialization, the population in London skyrocketed in the 1700’s, and there was _so_ much trash everywhere!”

“Garbage!”

“Whatever. So people thought they should throw it in the Thames so it would be carried away from the city because people kept getting sick all the time.”

“Just like in the lake here!” Peter observed.

“Yup! And then waste management evolved and they decided to take the waste management to the dust yards. Where all the grubbers do their thing, yannow. But the price for reselling dust has declined for a while, so they can’t do much. But like 50 or something years ago they introduced the Public Health Act.”

“Yay, so now we get clean air and water!” Peter rejoiced.

“ _They_ get clean air and water,” Alfred corrected with a cynical grin, “City exclusive.”

A frown spread across Peter’s face before he snootily huffed and bent down to pick up a crumpled-up magazine spread. Alfred did the same. He thought that if people decided to stay here for the rest of their lives they would never get to see the day waste management would improve in Smalltown. Because it most probably never would. There was no form for a garbage pick-up system that would pick up the bags that lay in their self-made ‘dust yards’ in the outskirts of town. But, of course, when had Smalltown ever been prioritized by authorities? Sometimes inhabitants of the town, mostly Antonio, Gilbert or Ludwig would initiate garbage-throwing days where they’d gather some people and all of them would take as many bags they could carry, take the train to the nearest garbage collection site: Middlesborough, and sometimes all the way to Gateshead. They would carry the bags from the station to the site and then go back home. Alfred had often joined in on that (not that there were any teen-aged or younger in town who wouldn’t join anyway), and coming back and seeing the shrunken pile of garbage bags was always a huge relief. It didn’t happen too often, however, so it never truly made a difference in anything but morale.

“Hello, you two!” a female voice called out. Alfred cast a glance in her direction, seeing Elizabeta and Lily coming his way.

“Hi!” Peter exclaimed back joyfully and waved at them.

“Hi, Peter,” Lily smiled and bent down the few centimeters she towered over him, “How are you doing?”

“We’re picking up garbage!” Peter said as if it was the most exciting thing in the world.

“ _Nahát_ , Alfred! You look so much better!” Elizabeta commented in the midst of the exchange, Lily expressing her agreement with an eager nod.

“I _feel_ a lot better too!” Alfred sheepishly grinned before he took a few steps toward them, opened his arms, and briefly embraced them.

“Thanks for the help,” he muttered and hoped to God that the slightly awkward gesture could reflect his sentimentality. Elizabeta gave him a firm pat on the back, Lily chuckled lightly. When Alfred let go, he broke into a lustrous smile and wiped a little sweat from his forehead.

“How’s everything goin’?” he asked, to which Elizabeta smirked at Lily and gave her a nudge that was a little bit too harsh. Lily blushed and inaudibly protested, but the older one of them kept pressing her until Lily took a deep breath.

“Well, it isn’t much, but…”

The slight girl kept looking at the others as if there was someone who would come to her rescue. When it didn’t, she hid her face and retreated as closely to Elizabeta as she could.

“What’s up, Lily?” Alfred asked slightly concerned.

“She’s scared of sounding conceited,” Elizabeta laughed and pinched Lily’s rosy cheek, “She found a very valuable piece of material at the lake, but using the crane would be too harsh, so this absolute unit of a fighter-”

She slapped Lily’s back, “-dove in and swam to retrieve war treasures that are worth two million pounds!”

Alfred and Peter gaped at Lily in awe.

“I had a bad stomachache for days afterward, but now the town council wants to sell them so we can afford sanitary systems,” Lily modestly concluded.

“Lily Vogel, _sweetheart_ ,” Alfred said before boisterously throwing an arm around her shoulder and ruffling her hair, “That’s _boss_!”

Lily did her best in not blushing but the whole situation ended up so focused on her that she had to shed a few tears in front of a laughing Alfred, Elizabeta and Peter. Fortunately, their laughter was of nothing but goodwill.

“Come on, celebrate yourself a little!” Alfred encouraged the lightly sobbing Lily. Elizabeta pinched her cheeks.

“You could learn a thing or two from Alfred,” she teased before Lily collected herself and the others decided to give her some space. She looked at Alfred and smiled sweetly.

“I will take over some of your jobs if you’d like, so you can rest for a little longer,” she said. Alfred opened his mouth to protest, but before he let a single word come out, he felt Peter’s little hand slap him surprisingly hard on his back followed by an intense stare that was more of a command than a warning. Alfred hoped Lily or Elizabeta would be more lenient on him, but it seemed like he would have to take it lightly for a few more days. He ended up releasing a defeated sigh.

“Thanks, Lily, I owe you one,” he eventually said. Lily simply let out a satisfied huff in response.

The girls eventually took their leave because they almost missed their train, and Alfred and Peter were back to straining their backs to keep the street clean. After the conversation with the girls, Alfred had felt a sense of thoughtful relief overcome him. One thing was being “okay” with taking over someone else’s job, the action of simply tolerating it. Another thing was actively seeking out to take over another person’s job out of voluntariness, which was what Lily was doing. Not only did this mean that Alfred was the sole person in the spotlight by being forced to rest, but that Lily too had a desire to do more work, which frankly made Alfred feel less of a temporary deadweight. It gave him another reason to do less work. Hopefully, he was doing himself a favor.

“Alfie?” came Peter’s voice.

“Hm?”

“Who are Jack and Wendy?”

Alfred’s thought process buffered at the sudden shift in conversation. Ah, right. Had Alfred or Dad ever properly told him about them? Peter must have listened in on their brief discussions about them. Thus, Alfred told Peter about the big guy who was even louder than himself whom he met at the inn two months ago, and the young miss whom he still didn’t quite know who was in relation to him. But based on appearance, she _had_ to be his daughter. Dad had been sent another letter from them about how they would fancy a little visit for old time’s sake. This information made Peter instantly forget what he was doing in the first place, and he dropped the garbage bag to the ground.

“So they’re _actually_ going to visit?” he asked eagerly, hands clenched into fists in front of him, “And I’m _actually_ going to meet someone my age?”

The boy had literal stars in his eyes, and Alfred almost cooed at him. Were Jack a man true to his words, soon Peter would for the first time in his eight and a half years be able to properly interact with a peer. To Alfred this fact was as surreal as could get.

“And they both talk so strangely!” Alfred added, “They’ve spent a lot of time in Australia and you bet I could hear it.”

“Australia? Where’s that?” Peter gasped quietly.

“On the other side of the globe,” Alfred said even more quietly.

“How did they get here?” Peter whispered.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Alfred mimed before he raised the volume of their conversation again, “But I bet they’ve travelled more till now than I’ll ever do in my lifetime.”

Peter squeezed his facial features into a grin and chortled. After that he didn’t say anything else, but picked up the garbage bag and proceeded with the work. It was when he realized that it had been filled to the brim that he turned back to Alfred and held it out for him to see. Alfred did the same.

“Maybe we should go to the dust yard with’em?” he suggested.

  
Being the strong, young man he was, Peter tossed his garbage sack over his shoulder, and made sure to regain his balance after nearly falling backward. With a thumbs-up and a dependable grin of approval, Alfred too manhandled his stuff till they were ready to go.

* * *

“ _Ack_ -”

Lately, he thought that the weight of his years had started to take a toll on his body. As he stretched toward the cupboards to fetch some of the few spices he owned, he cursed the sharp pain shooting through in his ribs and back. Having acknowledged this inconvenience, he had discreetly tried helping himself through everyday life by leaving all condiments on the kitchen counter instead of in the cupboards after usage. But the boys had always placed them back to keep things tidy. Never had he thought he would consider their tidiness to be a bother, but surely there was a first time for everything.

He wasn’t even 50 yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  \- "Nahàt!" Hungarian. An expression of surprise, equivalent to "My word!" or "Goodness!"
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Seeya next week!


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